


Fool Me Once

by King of Novices (mykonos)



Series: Kill Me Before Death [3]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Abduction, BAMF Malik, Blood and Gore, Brotherly Affection, Car Sex, Character Death, Gen, Homophobic Language, M/M, Sexual Content, Stalking, Talk of Sex and Sexuality, Violence, Weapons, implied marriage, mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-05 09:35:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1813765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mykonos/pseuds/King%20of%20Novices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to 'Kill Me Before Death'</p><p>Fears are there for a reason. Fears tell the tale of suspicion. Fears make us crumble. Fears make us monsters. And when Malik is taken from him, Altaïr fears.</p><p>TL;DR Robert De Sable kidnaps Kadar and then Malik to lure out Altaïr and make deals. Malik plans a break-out and Altaïr a break-in, so who wins the race with a common goal?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Read the warnings. Enjoy the appetizer.

Altaïr is late but not too late when he arrives.

Connor is strapped to the chair already.

Altaïr nods to gathered _famiglia_ and walks over to Connor with an investigative eye. The straps are but silken ropes, scarce enough to present serious restraint, the same ones that once shackled his own wrists in like manner.

He stops beside the armchair and Connor’s eyes are closed, his breath slow but steady. Altaïr lifts his chin with a finger and finds hazel eyes opened. They look at him from below, somewhat hazy, but the initiate doesn’t speak.

Altaïr thumbs along the mid-line groove above his full lips, presses into the soft flesh of his lower lip, with the tip first, then cuts in with a blunt nail.

"Can you feel it?"

Connor refutes with a sluggish shake of head while Altaïr holds his chin.

Altaïr releases the hold and looks up from below his cowl.

"Leonardo will be here in a moment." He speaks above the hum of discourse in the background.

The subterranean room looks like a spirit of past frozen in a moment of time.

The walls are clothed in drapery, crimson and heavy, with no windows, no artificial light save for the fire. It’s dim around the corners and bright in its middle, saturates its actors with a luminous glow of flames that blaze in the center they have girdled round. All don a hood, a blade, a joy. A delight at fully embracing an initiate into the band of family. Of creed. Of blood.

"Remember your own trial-and-cut, Desmond?" Altaïr asks and watches as the heat of fire that separates them plays a distorting game with the young man’s hooded face.

"Feels like it was yesterday." Desmond flashes a smile that turns into a chuckle when Ezio pats him below nape and clinches him into a half-hug.

"Last year _is_ like yesterday, mouseling."

 _The_ _famiglia_ is in good cheer and it’s good to be in their company even when Altaïr is in somewhat of a hurry. The act of initiation must be attended by the inner circle, the quintet (soon to be sextet) of this region, no matter how busy, beaten or bloody they might be.

"I’m not the mouseling anymore." Desmond dissents in a futile protest.

"Sure you are." Ezio ushers him into his playful grasp anew, "Aveline is long past her initiation and my mouseling still. And now I get another one." He points at silent Connor with arm still wound around Desmond’s neck. Desmond shakes his head and hides a traitorous smile in the shadows of his hood, but accepts Ezio’s coddle.

Leonardo joins, beams an infectious smile.

The heavy doors are closed and locked into place before Leonardo settles into position before the initiate, kneels high between Connor’s spread legs.

The air shifts into a solemn quiet; not a sound is uttered when each member falls into place around the fire, a circle closed by Connor’s sitting form at apex.

The fire crackles in soft, soothing tones while tools are prepared.

When the blade of Leonardo’s scalpel cuts into Connor’s skin and flesh, he doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t feel.

When the somber timbre of Leonardo's voice dispels the peace, their heads fall into a low droop.

"With this offering, I summon the ancestors that once stood around this fire, that they may witness this oath." Leonardo tilts the blade so that the blood which trickles in fat drops along the edge may stain only Connor.

When he resumes the induction, there is a unison of movement as the circle behind him pull out blades.

"With this sacrifice we curse those who would end freedom. Let their bodies wither, let their bones crack, let them see their men drown in their own blood."

When Altaïr slices his blade into the join of his thumb and index finger, the rest mirrors. Blood flows and trickles and drips across the floor, round the fire.

"To this band of sisters and brothers we offer our minds—"

When Leonardo dips a finger into the seeping blood on Connor’s cut face and draws a crimson line down the center of his forehead, Altaïr does the same on his own.

"—our breath—"

When Leonardo paints the length of Connor’s nose, Altaïr drags his bloody hand down the line of his own.

"—our speech."

When Leonardo rises, Altaïr’s palm trails over his scar and mouth. Heady crimson assails his vision, his taste, his smell. The fire burns crimson, as do their memories, and their future.

"Spirits of our ancestors, behold this man."

When Altaïr’s hands rise, facing up, to form an open cup, blood trickles down his left palm and into his right, pools in between. When he breaks this touch of hands and joins his right with Aveline’s left, his blood mixes with hers. Hers mixes with Ezio’s, Ezio’s with Desmond’s.

"Let his enemies flee from him. Let their alliances crumble and their houses burn. Let them suffer deeply and live a life of shame and bitter misery."

Aveline’s clutch tightens on his hand and Altaïr returns it, feels the slick of her bleeding hand connect their hands and minds.

"Behold this man, for he has done faithful vigil for freedom. And with this oath promises to offer life and death to its purpose."

When Altaïr lifts his eyes from the flame he sees each face marred by stains of red. A sensation of fulfillment courses his veins in a warm rush, feels like their bodies are fused for a fraction of a moment.

"This man is now an assassin."

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whatever you're expecting from me, it's not what you expect.

 

"Never pegged him for a faggot."

"Shut your trap and shoot. You’re not paid to think." Jubair monotones.

Sibrand averts his gaze from his smoking companion with an open sneer, but the shutter goes off and immortalizes a set of frames where their targets hold hands on the late sunset. The beach is mostly vacant, with the remaining families sluggishly migrating towards their cars.

"Always seen him as a hardcore macho, you know."

The last volute of smoke rises above the small bistro table before the man across flicks the cigarette stub into the grainy sand and doesn’t bother to address the scandalized look sent his way by a passing mother who is leaving the beach cafe with a babe in arm.

"He’s more of a man than you can ever hope to be, bud."

Being the butt of jokes is little pain compared to the sting of exclusion.

The stroll of the oblivious couple is put to a stop when the unknown man thrusts the mafioso into shallow waters with a playful shove and gets tugged along. The photographer doesn’t follow the ensuing laughter and grapple through the lens because he leans across table towards his companion.

"Eat shit and suck cock, Jubair."

* * *

 

 

"... 33, Syrian by heritage, retains a single living family member," soft clicks of the remote control meddle with Robert's juicy chews. The rest sit in a smoky silence. A picture of a younger man comes up on the canvas, "Kadar Al-Sayf, 23, also Syrian—"

"Yes, yes, yes—" Robert cuts off with a dismissive wave of hand, "What clan? I want to know what alliance they’ve made."

A heavy silence stretches on while Robert cuts through a crisp apple and eats the slice off the blade.

"I’m listening, Jubair." He prompts. Unhurried, because he enjoys his meal.

"Well… that’s the thing, Boss." He stalls a touch uncertain, knowing he’s about to break the inevitable, "He is an outsider."

Robert stops with blade in midair and holds the slice there. He passes a look around the table, examines each face with a thorough inspection, like all owe him an explanation.

"Outsider?"

"Yes," Jubair confirms, leaves the remote upon the heavy table, "An unknown, complete outsider."

Robert bursts into a bout of laughter that only a handful of bravest join in.

"He tied the knot with an outsider? Come now, next thing you’ll tell me is he married out of love."

Jubair’s eyes shift elsewhere as he phlegmatically waits for an order. Robert takes it as a cue.

He raises himself from his stooping posture, drops apple and knife, and commences a thoughtful walk before his gathering. He saunters a half circle round the table. When he speaks, his voice is laced with incredulity at the extraordinariness of this arrangement.

"The gall of that man. Has the assassin no family honor? No codes to follow, or creeds to obey?"

 _Everything is permitted_ hangs in the air between the gathered group like a heady stench. It's not their first time admitting outsiders into their family circle, though never did it happen via marriage.

"Very well. That's settled then. We may not have an alliance to exploit, but we have a weaker link."

"Boss?" Prompts one of the group.

"The outsider."

 

* * *

 

 

A quickie has somehow turned into a longie.

Malik sporadically remembers to check his wristwatch, the sole thing he wears beside sweat and his wedding ring, those two only material possessions he ever allowed Altaïr to get him.

He recurrently remembers why Altaïr insists on bottoming so often as his throat closes off from the unrelenting pleasure that sculls his veins. Altaïr keeps a constant pressure on his prostrate, his aim is cruel and flawless, he thrusts in ways that aren't tentative in the least, but hard and hungry. Malik can scarce hold himself up while Altaïr fucks into him from behind.

His muscles quiver and protest from strain and pleasure. He lifts himself because there’s nowhere to fall, not too high because there’s nowhere to rise. The car roof stops his ascend. His elbow and forearm have only touched glass when they slide down the slippery backseat window with a noisy squeak. Everything is foggy and humid with breath.

There’s nowhere to grasp at in the tight space of Altaïr’s car and Malik can only lean his temple against the arm that holds up against the inner bump of the door, can only open his throat long enough to moan, and keep his skull from banging into the glass while his body enjoys Altaïr’s assault. Altaïr’s answer of pleasure rises above the soft tones of softer jazz that plays in the background. He steals an arm around his waist and molds himself against Malik's back to give it to him from both ends.

"Oh, _Allah_ —" Malik groans, his voice hitching.

"You called?" Altaïr whispers gruffly, his breath rolls off Malik's neck.

"Don't make me… bite you… again…" He breathes between thrusts into Altaïr's awaiting fist.

"I'm terrified..."

Malik's heart pounds in his throat and ears, momentarily drowning out everything but pleasure. He has been in control until recently. It's no secret that Altaïr is very much the one in command now. Malik has no qualms getting it as good as he gives it, but work awaits.

" _Hurry_." Malik rasps. He doesn't have much time left and the fact hangs between them like a threat. His lunch break won’t last forever.

He blinks up at the time.

"Three minutes." He supplies. Altaïr drops his mouth to Malik's shoulder, scraps his teeth over skin and leaves raised welts. A spike of pleasure shoots up his spine, making Malik drop his face into his forearm to muffle the responsive moan. He doesn't see, but feels the way Altaïr moves against him. Muscles bunching and releasing under flushed skin while Malik tries (with little success) to spread his thighs more without falling off seat.

"Two minutes..."

" _Malik_ —"Altaïr breathes the moan into his ear, devotes his exclusive attention to pushing him into a climax. Malik gives him his due—he is not stingy with force, rolls into him with a rush of aggression, and Malik takes it all, can't stop the gravelly moans that rip from his throat without control. The car is rocking, it just has to be. Heavens be praised for tinted windows.

" _One_ —" His voice comes as a low, throaty whisper, almost a moan. One fucking minute before his break is officially over. The pool of pleasure slowly branches out and stirs into an orgasm. Altaïr's groan vibrates against his shoulder and he recognizes its pitch, but Altaïr's thrusts stutter too quickly for Malik to react.

"You fucking bastard..." He fumes without real menace as Altaïr’s seed trickles down his thigh and he makes sure to pull at his hair hard enough to make it tingle while Altaïr chuckles himself stupid into his nape like he’s high on life. His body falls heavily against Malik's while he evens out his breathing. Malik allows him this small escapade because he'll clean this mess with Altaïr's clothes. He allows himself this tardiness because spikes of pleasure skitter through his entire body in small, stray shivers, and he worries least now for his belated arrival.

He presses his shoulder into Altaïr’s pouty lips, maneuvers him into a sitting position, makes short work of cleaning off the evidence of sex. Altaïr reaches between the front seat gap for a unopened cigarette pack, taps against the box during the course of brief pondering and leaves it aside. He is trying to rid himself of the habit and rarely smokes these days. He leans back prone against Malik's reclining form and bends a leg to make a better fit. Malik drapes his arm across the limb while Altaïr slouches against his heaving chest, the gesture as possessive as it is protective. He feels the caress of his husband’s ear against his collarbone while Altaïr thumbs over the glassy surface of his watch and wipes off residual moisture.

"I saw this other one. It's expensive, but—"

"Altaïr, no."

"You never let me buy you gifts."

Malik rests his eyes and kneads into Altaïr's muscles where his thigh is melded into his calf. While he progresses higher Altaïr settles without questioning his deliberate lateness for work. Malik strokes his husband's heel while a chatty mood surges to the surface and settles over him.

"He who has no car or doesn't wear designer shoes or imported perfume is only pretending to exist. Whoever doesn't own, is not even alive. Impostor economy, impostor culture. I don’t want to be made happy by things I’m told will make me happy, I’m content with that which really makes me so."

"And does your husband make you happy?"

"Against all odds, you do."

Malik nudges against Altaïr's sweaty forehead tucked below his chin and the scruff of his goatee prompts the man to look up. Malik kisses him quickly and chastely, pulls away just before Altaïr's brain kicks into gear.

"I can give a perfect response to that." Altaïr assures and again molds himself against Malik's frame.

"Is it cheesy?"

"Yes."

"Then I don't want to hear it."

Malik answers Altaïr's chuckle with a smile and begins to trace the groove where his thigh meets his groin. A shallower breath is a warm rush of air against his neck as he gently tugs at the trail of hairs between Altaïr's navel and cock, but Malik stalls his caress when he feels another stirring of lust in his loins. There’s no time for more. He tilts Altaïr’s chin up to steal a cursory kiss and begins to dress.

 

* * *

 

 

Whenever Malik's inner oh-shit-meter goes off, it usually has something to do with either Altaïr or Kadar.

Kadar won’t answer Malik's rings when he calls before he is to leave work, and it's an ill omen. A seed of fear is sown into his stomach when he leaves his office and there's this gut-feeling that he can't quite place. He slips past one of the last remaining colleagues on his way out and by the time he is outside it's dark and his hair is standing on end. He decides to ring Kadar up again once he's at the takeout. Driven by some vague premonition, he slows in step and tightens his fist around the phone in pocket.

Malik is half across the empty grounds when something roots him to his spot.

A limousine swings into the driveway and eases into the parking lot, a long sleek hood of black with tinted glass and a noiseless engine.

The dormant feeling of uneasiness morphs into a twinge of panic when the vehicle stops right before him, the front window already lowered.

"Malik Al-Sayf?"

Malik swallows but doesn't lean in to connect the deep accented voice to a face. The man doesn't wait for confirmation, but sticks out his arm, a camera in hand. When Malik leans in with a scowl he zooms in on the image which casts a chill over him. It features Kadar, bound to a chair in a bland and shady room, blindfolded.

A blank expression of shock gobbles up the frown on his face.

The photo feels like a rough blow upon an ulcerated wound. Questions ran rampant throughout his brain, forming accusatory words and shouts yet he lacks a voice. It’s not Kadar’s fault this time. It’s not his fault either. In a world where his brother's life is safe, it probably isn't Altaïr's fault either. The car inches forward when the camera disappears from his sight and the window rolls up.

Malik hasn't yet absorbed the news when the door behind unlocks and opens to beckon him inside.

A sober assessment of the situation points out the futility of struggling against captivity and he knows it’s best not to resist at present.

Malik sinks into the limousine's dark interior without a noise.

He can fight once Kadar is safe and back in his arms. On the vigor of this idea he is carried down the driveway and onto the street. The car tears on into the night at a merry speed.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You assumed this is a story about black versus white? Surprise surprise!

During the course of the ride, Malik is deprived of vision.

The blindfold is taken off a little before the door nearest to him is opened wide to encourage him outside. He can’t be sure when this sudden freedom will be compromised and scouts the area quickly and as thoroughly as this rush allows.

They are on a hilly part of the area Malik usually sees only from the old parts of the town where plazas aren’t marred by modern steeple of skyscrapers and don’t obscure all vision. The city lies far below, a sea of lights with dotty colors reflected over a wide body of water in the background. A brush of forest and dense undergrowth of small trees and bushes stripes down the slope that descends into the city’s outskirts and Malik decides it’s an advantage, a sliver lining that can be used for a comfortable escape.

The blindfold loses all its gist, really.

Malik wonders if there was an intended purpose behind it at all other than to try to roughen him up. Perhaps this merry lot expects him to lie back and wait for help, or rather, they firmly believe he wouldn’t dream of attempting a breakout. Malik is not offended and finds no fault in this. The element of surprise is on his side and he is happy to have it there.

Malik turns his gaze to the only building around.

It’s fenced off and lined with barbed wire. It doesn’t look rundown, just vacant, abandoned until recently, like a fresh fiasco of a bankrupt company or a failed project later sold off to foreign hands. At about five stories tall, with a dying lawn and sturdy interior that looked fairly new. Somewhere in there in the bowels of this structure must be Kadar. That’s what makes Malik step out when these men steer him towards the entrance.

The playground begs his attention and leaves him little time to assess the actors, but Malik is sure he’ll get to know them soon enough and takes in what little he still can before they usher him inside.

A single man nudges him forward with a trifling push between his shoulder blades while he moves along. Malik recognizes this one as the blond who fleetingly addressed him with a foul insult in the car. The remaining duo is at his sides as they walk.

The introductory rooms of the building are an ample stretch of plain nothing, too simple and rudimentary to be committed to memory.

They climb up a wide staircase lacking railing, caught in the process of being completed, and enter a long bland hallway that hosts a heavy door at its summit. It appears to have an elaborate locking system. This could be a pain in the arse, provided it’s the exclusive means of exit.

One of the two that precede him enters a code too quick for Malik to follow. He hears a chatter of tongues streaming from in there before the unhinged door puts a stop to it. A hush passes over the group within as soon as they enter.

A mist of smoke billows out of door. The air in here is too stuffy and almost makes Malik cough.

The room has no windows.

Air filters can not quite dissipate the thickness of smoke and the light above is a hideous garish yellow, ugly but agreeable enough to provide Malik plenty eyesight.

The room is mostly a vast stretch of nothingness with one corner occupied, a wide TV screen there, a couple of laptops and a mighty-looking camera elevated on a tripod.

A group of five somber, dreary-looking people is assembled around a heavily-timbered table and smoking forbidden cigars. This quintet plus the trio that had piloted him in here probably make the inner circle. Considering the gravity of this task, they are in small numbers. Neither of them seems a very savory character, but then, neither seems a whole lot of people Malik meets on daily basis. All are laden with weapons. While it’s shit, it was foolish not to expect it. Though Altaïr drops his role as an assassin and a mafia member while in his presence, he is armed otherwise.

Malik breathes small and stands unflinching under the heavy weight of a dozen unrelenting eyes.

A murmur of approbation gently arises from the audience before a man―one of three Caucasians―wrinkles his newspaper and leaves the oaken table to confront Malik.

This man is tall, with a ﬁgure of perfect elegance and unexpected impressiveness to a man of such large scale. The bulbs cast a gleam over his bald head. He is dressed as the rest of them, all shirts and dark suits.

The man offers his huge hand and Malik takes it while he is greeted with outright enthusiasm.

"Malik Al-Sayf, I assume." The man says during this hefty shake of hands like he’s just met a long-awaited business partner and Malik plays along.

"And you might be?" Malik naturally inquires and feels a presence settle next to his right flank.

"I'm sorry we meet under present circumstances. I wish it could be otherwise." A Frenchman, if the accent is to be trusted. His demeanor confers a sense of dignity on the whole affair and the knot in Malik’s gut somewhat loosens despite his best efforts to keep it tight.

"Robert De Sable." The man supplies at last. He gestures to the man towering behind Malik (the one with the camera, the deep accented voice from the car) and follows clockwise across the table. "From your left to your right are Jubair, Majd Addin, Tamir, William, Talal and—Sibrand.” The third man from the car is not introduced and Malik assumes it’s a straw man.

Malik flicks his gaze to the presence on his immediate right and recognizes the blond pest. Rude, but not someone who gives the impression of a person with decided opinions.

"Yes, I’ve met the gentleman." Malik remembers the slur from the limousine. Sibrand fixes him with a stare and Robert lifts an eyebrow at their familiarity.

"He called me by a lovely name I don’t care to repeat."

At Robert’s silent inquiry, Sibrand speaks up.

"I told him what he is, Boss. A faggot."

Robert heaves a breath Malik cannot entirely define as a sigh.

"Thank you, Sibrand, for your appropriate and timely input. It means a lot to all of us."

Malik imagines it can’t be at all enjoyable having the Boss poke fun at you, and judging by the murmur of amusement in the background, it appears taking the piss out on Sibrand is their favorite pastime.

Malik passes another look across the earlier trail set to him by Robert, gathering what little he can from the ostensible. Majd Addin is a hairy man in the fat age of pleasure, wealth and ease. Tamir a man with a wide mouth fringed by a thin mustache and a harsh slope of eyebrows who strikes him as a person with a surly manner. William is the only one sans a cigar, a gaunt, peevish man building a Stonehenge from lighters that clutter the table. Talal looks like a flinty man, all order and rules.

While Robert’s bearing somewhat stills Malik’s apprehension, at the back of his courage is a monstrous fear.

"Where is my brother?"

"Safe. You shall soon join him." Roberts assures, "As I said, Malik Al-Sayf, I feel regret at having to use you and your brother as bait—you are but innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire of an ancient battle."

Malik drinks up as much of this information as he can manage with all thoughts on Kadar. They are lucky enough. This man knows they are outsiders, they’re not a well of information to anyone. Still, he doesn’t pass any comments.

"Luck willing, both of you will be only passing guests in this small exchange. Until then," Robert motions to Malik, and Jubair closes in on him along with the straw man, "you won’t be harmed by my hand, only by a misstep of those you trust."

"Strictly speaking, we should kill them." Majd Addin comments from the table before they can leave, a fat Cuban dangles between his two bulbous fingers. Malik takes an instant dislike for him.

Robert does not abide by this quip and silences the slip-up with a rise of hand. Majd Addin doesn’t agree, but he doesn't have the nerve to upset his Boss' plans.

"I’m not revengeful. Unlike your husband and his gang." Robert ends their encounter with these words and a meaningful look. Malik can’t manage more than a nod before they blindfold him once again and direct him out.

While they escort him through a winding of halls, Malik counts his steps, counts seconds, and focuses on twists and turns, charts them on the inside of his head. The map may be of use later on. He hears a set of beeps, a code being entered, and then a heavy mechanical lock shifting out of place. When the fold comes off, the barrier of steel is wide open revealing Kadar’s sitting form. Malik isn’t thrust forward but left with freedom to willingly step into his prison, and he does, unhurried.

"I believe you will be comfortable here." Jubair says without schadenfreude.

"As long as you don’t have one of those annoyingly loud ticktock clocks." He replies impromptu, on a whim of elation he feels at seeing Kadar unharmed and sitting cross-legged on the only table in the room.

He doesn’t get a reply and his thoughts are far from Jubair while he keeps his eyes squarely on his brother.

No sooner does the lock fall into place when Malik closes the distance and presses Kadar into his chest with so convulsive a force that the poor man utters a protest of pain.

"Are you hurt?" He whispers the question after Kadar accepts the sting of his embrace. Kadar’s old, treasured sneakers dig into Malik’s stomach, crossed at ankles, his open knees frame Malik’s waist and fasten onto his ribs as soon as he latches onto Malik’s back and hooks his wrists on his shoulders. It’s been a while since they hugged each other thus.

Kadar clicks his tongue against his teeth in a sharp smack of denial and Malik accepts the laconic response. That’s good news; he will need Kadar at the ready.

"Friendly lot, aren't they?" Kadar lampoons, more seriously than he is wont to speak. There’s some twisted truth to the ridicule.

Malik disentangles himself, limb after limb, and launches a second check-over of Kadar’s immediate well-being. Kadar doesn’t abandon his spot on the table and casually sits on its pitted surface while Malik proceeds to gauge what is their prison cell. Malik wanders abroad and examines about to give his myopic gaze a sense of familiarity, that he may establish a better perspective on things at hand.

They have been billeted into an odd room.

It’s huge, for one. Probably once meant as an office or a meeting room. It looks new, like the rest of this entire structure, it smells crispy fresh and unsullied by human presence. The furniture is sparse but recently installed in here. One wide square table, two chairs, two beds complete with two sets of pajamas laid out on the clean sheets. There’s a distinct lack of switches as electric light is controlled from outside. The windows (three in number) are crisscrossed by a network of metal bars, but jumping out wasn't even a remote feasibility because of the height.

There are two doors in total—one connecting their room to an adjacent bathroom, and the other a heavily guarded steel. Malik will find a way out even if it means unscrewing the door from their fucking jambs. Rare is the man who won a fight battling what never harmed him. He will, therefore, turn his attentions to his real enemies-cum-unwitting allies.

Malik's gaze mounts up to the two identical surveillance cameras that overlook the room. They run parallel on two furthest points from each other—one far above the bathroom door facing inwards across the room and the other situated between the heavy door and the first window, facing the door. They could prove to be a problem.

Any and all information would be about great right now.

"IP cameras?"

"Nah." Kadar says from the table, "CCTV. Old classic. No sound. No bugs either, I’ve double checked. We’re not tapped for some reason."

"Blind spots?"

"The cam above the bathroom covers about two thirds of the room, because it’s tilted low. I guess they wanted to include the area below. The one above you safeguards the exit." Kadar turns to regard the corner to their right, looking slightly less cheery than Malik is used to, "The only blind spot is this stupid window."

"You sound pretty sure." Malik says after he dips his hands into his pockets and sways over to lean his hip against the table.

"I’m not an IT student for nothing, _akhi_."

"Good job." Malik lauds with a nod.

"I wasn’t lazy, you know." Kadar grumbles on and Malik smiles and drapes an arm around his shoulder and neck, shares his warmth, leans his temple on Kadar’s already angled head like in the old times, when they were two and none of this was real. A dim smile glimmers pleasantly upon Malik’s face before he speaks.

"I bet you a fiver I’ll find a way out before you do." He says with a ray of humor. Kadar mimics a mock-spit into his palm and hands it over for a shake without upsetting their embrace.

Malik continues to rub and knead into Kadar’s shoulder and keeps him there, watches as a dark brooding slowly begins to roost over him and takes him far away. The crease on Kadar’s forehead deepens, signals the gravity of the direction that his thoughts have taken.

"Hey." Malik’s call breaks into Kadar’s musings, scattering his thoughts.

"Hush, I'm thinking, _akhi_."

"Truly a once-in-a-lifetime event." He chaffs.

Kadar smacks a hand against Malik’s chest and leaves him in a fit of breathy chuckles. Malik falls into thought soon thereafter and the rest of his pondering is carried out in silence.

 

* * *

 

 

Altaïr’s battery is running low by the time he stops off at the villa, on Ezio’s insistence.

He is close to tearing his hair out.         

Malik’s phone is dead. Kadar’s phone is dead. Their apartment is vacant and hauntingly silent. Malik’s colleagues assured him he had left hours ago. Kadar’s university is long past closure. The restaurants they frequent are bereft of customers. It’s past midnight by now anyway. Altaïr has been circling the city like a vulture for hours on end, with no success.

He parks the car haphazardly before the villa and bolts up the staircase.

Ezio’s tone had been casual over the phone, but Altaïr has this prickling sensation in his stomach that tells him something is most definitely up. He finds Ezio and Desmond in one of the living-rooms—Ezio sitting perched over a closed laptop and Desmond at his back, hands in pockets, hood up.

"Hello, cousin."

A second fear spreads through all Altaïr’s sinew at Ezio's grave voice, at his somber face. Desmond won't even look at him.

"What happened?" He demands, his heart still forming a brutal knot in his throat and making it hard to breathe.

Ezio inches the laptop away from himself and Altaïr catches the unsubtle hint and takes the nearest chair. He opens the laptop to break the bad news himself and he is chilled to the marrow by the sight that greets him. It’s unquestioningly Malik. It’s his dark goatee, his lips set into a grim line, his shirt—still wrinkled where Altaïr had fisted the fabric earlier today.

There’s no one but his blindfolded husband on the photo.

The shock of this makes him physically sick and he closes the full screen and marks that it’s part of a private stream with a single written message preceding it. His heart instantly jumps to his throat when his eyes land upon the sender.

_We need to talk, Assassin. — Robert_

That was it. One message and a photo, no ranting, no threats, just a morbidly grim message that turns everything over inside Altaïr.

"Call through." He orders because he can’t trust himself to do so. Ezio obeys without protest and without trying to imagine the consternation Altaïr is now in.

The call is pending for half a minute before someone answers, each second cuts deeper into Altaïr’s patience.

The live stream that starts at last features Robert. He is alone on the screen but not alone.

Robert folds his arms over his chest and leans back into the chair, projecting as much friendliness as he had intended—which is to say, not much.

" _So we meet again_." He drawls with a menacing glance and a sweet smile that plants the germ of evil into Altaïr.

"On what grounds do you justify your actions?" Altaïr asks, slowly, as not to upset the fragile will that keeps him in one piece and rooted to the chair.

" _You have grossly insulted me more than once. I have a score to settle, Assassins._ "

"What _kind_ of score?" Altaïr solicits with mock-patience.

" _Purely financial, of course. With a bit of steel on the side_."

Robert is dragging it out on purpose and Altaïr is steadily losing patience.

"This could have been done honorably. Plain and simple." He argues in what are the dying remnants of reason and semblance. 

" _True_." Robert finds himself hard-pressed to agree and grudgingly admits, but is quick to add, " _Had I been dealing with honorable men. This time there are… variations that add to complexity of the deal._ "

"By 'variations' you mean my husband?"

" _I guess I need to practice my subtlety_." Robert says with a small smile and returns to the matter at hand, " _I humbly offer myself as a business partner._ "

"You can 'humbly' kiss my ass." Altaïr hears Desmond mumble in the background.

"Speak sense." He demands.

" _Sense enough?_ " Robert asks with a playful lilt as he sends another picture through, a footage outtake of blindfolded Malik.

It feels as if his entire world makes another shift. Robert De Sable has Malik. His Malik. Altaïr's future is unimaginable without this single human being.

"Not near." Ezio races to answer before Altaïr can and closes the picture, but Altaïr succumbs to rage and hammers a fist against the table.

"I'm going to _kill_ you!" He growls into the stream, livid.

" _Get in line, Assassin._ " Robert says calmly, in a voice that exudes confidence, " _What are you going to do, hm?_ " He spreads his arms, " _Go ahead. Drown me in your impotent rage._ " Robert then leans his chin into his palm, his other hand a fist on his hip, " _I'm waiting, Assassin. With your husband and brother-in-law at my mercy._ "

His words go through Altaïr like a dose of ice.

Ezio quips in to negotiate while Altaïr falls back and eyes Robert with a naked loathing.

"Our question still holds, Robert." Ezio prompts, ventures on to avoid anything superfluous to the discussion.

" _I want the weapons you owe me. The cash I gave for it. Triple the amount, in exchange for this new price._ "

"Past deals have been made and unmade, Robert. You didn’t exactly hold your word either."

" _Yet I delivered a hefty sum for it_." Robert drops the casual stance and leans into the camera, " _Draw a line, Assassin, don't cross it. You won't find me unreasonable_."

"We will give you an answer in due course," says Ezio while he hovers above the end-stream.

" _Let me know the wheres and whens of your itinerary. I’ll keep your husband safe until then, Assassin._ "

Ezio's finger stills on the mouse, unsure whether Altaïr wishes to hear more or end the call, and Robert beats him to it.

" _Alright. I'll butt out._ "

There is heavy quiet after the video ends.

Altaïr is struck mute and turning paler in spite of a strong effort to conceal his trouble while the three of them are back to sitting in silence, and white specks of snow that signal a terminated stream seem to swell in volume to fill the gap of conversation.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consequently, you better be seeing a rainbow, or I'll know the reason why...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this and hoping no one will make the mistake of being offended.

"Homosexuality is a mental disability." Sibrand casually informs right after having dropped off a plate of sandwiches and drinks in their cell.

Kadar ceases his inspection of their belated dinner to look up with a jolt, across the table where Malik is sitting with his chin nonchalantly cradled in a propped arm.

"So is being a faggot." Malik returns without a blink.

Sibrand doesn't take his rebuff and insult well.

"Prove me wrong. I'll be impressed."

"Not interested in your impressions." Malik lays him off with a wave of hand and picks up the toast sandwich Kadar has abandoned a moment earlier.

Sibrand apparently handles dismissal even worse.

"What do you faggots whisper in each other's ears while fucking? 'Ooooh your shit feels good on my dick, sissy boy'?" He slurs with an ugly sneer and an angry clutch on the reinforced-steel door. Malik isn't even mad, he is jolly as fuck. There isn't even bait on that hook.

"Seems like you have experience." Malik answers drolly between bites and smirks at the scandalized look he earns before he chuckles along with Kadar who is almost choking on his meal.

Sibrand glares fiercely but wilts under their laughs. When the door falls into place and locks, the brothers burst into an open laughter.

"Why do you indulge him?" Kadar asks while he brushes off a stray tear of mirth and picks up his sandwich.

"The guy is being played like a fucking fiddle."

 

* * *

 

 

At least five-to-six different cats (as far as he could tell apart) have crawled across Altaïr's lap over the course of the last few hours. It's inevitable, as all three doors of this current focal point of the villa are opened for the come-and-go of _the famiglia_ members. The living room is cluttered in both people and tech stuff. Altaïr doesn't mind the animals. They are well-behaved and few fool around with the equipment, and Altaïr wouldn't protest for the singular reason of them being Leonardo's pets.

The inner circle is close at Altaïr's side, all other missions aborted and attentions turned to the single case of rescue. Even Leonardo lost his customary good humor, shaken up by the whole event.

It's almost 3 o'clock in the morning.

Altaïr knows they are exhausted, but there is still the matter of a due call. He also knows his own attitude is erratic and fickle, shifting radically between panic, anger and pure aggression. Ezio is growing cranky and finds it harder to deal with him with each passing minute.

"We should think on it for a while, cousin."

"I'll think when I'm sure what his answer is."

Ezio and Altaïr have been scuffling over a fixed decision for the past two hours. Others will jump in with suggestions or ideas, but it falls on them to work out a compromise, and between the two of them Altaïr is the more bull-headed one.

"Why not just pay the fucking cash, Altaïr? Is it worth a risk?" Ezio revisits an earlier proposal, one adamantly supported by Leonardo, but not by all. Altaïr worries not about a hemorrhage of cash and weapons that Robert demands.

"Because trade goods don't guarantee their safety, Ezio." Altaïr watches as Ezio closes his eyes with a tired sigh and sinks into his forearms, but he presses on, "Why should I stick my neck out for them? Or give them a chance to harm my family? I’ll do neither." Ezio sneaks a look up at him from below, drained and on verge of giving up, "There is something threatening my husband and my brother-in-law and I will ward it off, even if it kills me."

Ezio heaves another sigh and straightens and rubs his face.

"At least try to focus, for fuck's sake." Ezio draws the laptop closer and opens the stream, "Or your own."

The rest of _the famiglia_ falls back to let them negotiate. Leonardo remains where he sits, to Altaïr's right side but off screen, Aveline stands on the far end of the table, while Desmond and Connor assume the sofa.

" _What took you so long_?" Robert says upon answering the call. This time it appears he is alone in the room, but it matters little.

Altaïr had thought he would face him unruffled and composed as he would in any other given situation, but it's stronger than him when he  stares at his nemesis with such malice and actual hate which would send any other man scrambling away under the gaze. Ezio instantly shoulders himself to the lead upon sensing Altaïr's mood.

"We have set a date."

" _Until the finish of this week. I won't take no for an answer._ "

"Monday." Ezio argues evenly.

" _What, reluctant to part from cash_?" Robert mocks, and Altaïr regards him with frank loathing.

"Money was never a problem, Robert. The weapons, on the other hand." Ezio trails off.

Robert takes a moment to mull it over, but acquiesces in the end.

" _Monday, it is. That's in less than two days. Not an hour more_." Robert switches his focus to Altaïr, " _For each new day of delay, you'll find a part of your husband missing. Hopefully you can see him in a single piece again, Assassin_."

Robert has the gall to smirk at him, to stretch his lips over canines cruelly and reveal a stretch of pearly teeth. " _Don't worry, we'll start with his cock_."

Altaïr's hands are angry fists on table while his breath tightens.

"Altaïr, calm. He wants to aggravate you." Leonardo mouths at him in a hush. Altaïr knows that, _hopes_ that. But it does a very meager job of calming his fears.

"Time and place, Robert, if you'd please." Ezio dismisses the small escapade, expects Altaïr to hold himself in line this time.

" _Same old place as before, Assassin. Monday morning at 6 o'clock. Not a moment past_."

Robert ends the stream without another word and Ezio closes the laptop, rather pleased with his performance, and only mildly pleased with Altaïr.

It is set.

Robert has been duped into thinking that they intend to pay the trade.

"Connor," Altaïr calls and sees him rise from the sofa, "I have a very delicate task for you."

 

* * *

 

 

Malik exists the bathroom freshly-showered and dressed in those comfy set of pajamas to find Sibrand's newest sojourn to their cell.

He has been sent to inform them about the impeding lights outage in their room, but instead of vanishing from his sight he starts shooting a barrage of questions about issues Malik really could care less about right now.

"I just got through a heated debate between myself and three other guys about whether homosexuality is a choice. My view, based on logic and evidence, points toward homosexuality being determined at birth, and they all responded with the idea that the human brain can change anything, that it can will a person straight or gay if you desire it enough, and that homosexuality is a choice. So what do you say?"

Kadar doesn't even bother. He doesn't give a fig for the subject and he's cocooned in sheets and waiting for the promised darkness with his back turned to both of them.

Malik's own impressed-o-meter is exactly at zero while he stands and deadpans at Sibrand. He suppresses a long-suffering sigh, and replies flatly:

"I say that this building is full of people that should worry about their own lives and not everyone else's."  
  
Sibrand is getting nosy and growing blatant. Malik only vaguely wonders what the story is behind his morbid curiosity, but doesn’t really ponder it. He has least time for this yammering nonsense.

 

* * *

 

 

Altaïr feels uncomfortable about leaving this room. It furnishes him with some odd sense of stability. He also fears a bed without Malik.

He is at ill ease with any company at the moment. It's nearing five in the morning and daybreak is nigh, and the rest of them scatters into their refuges to prepare for what lies ahead and to do Altaïr this favor of loneliness. Altaïr knows that he and fear don't mingle so well in their imagination, and no one finds the right way to console him, not even empathetic Leonardo.

He isn't one to feel fright because nothing is gained from it. Survival panic, yes. Anxiety, maybe. But not fear. The pain of it hurts him because there is no familiarity to compare it with.

All that he loves is in jeopardy. He knows he will do nothing sensible should his fears be decanted into reality.

Aveline lingers a while longer after everyone slithers off, kneads her hand into his shoulder, tells him to take a shower to unknot the tension from his body. He knows there’s a point to her entreaty, and a hot shower sounds appealing. He does want it, and he doesn’t. Malik’s scent is still on his skin, the trail his fingers had traveled hours ago, the spots his lips had touched. He wants to keep them on himself. He skips the shower but accepts a few hours of sweet oblivion when Aveline fetches a bed-pillow and blanket to put on the sofa he occupies.

She leaves him in the gloom of the room, in the dimness distorted by a glow of laptops and the sunrise filtering in through venetian blinds.

Altaïr lies absolutely gutted.

He firmly believes he won't be able to sleep after dark thoughts begin to sidle into his mind, until there is a pair of amber brighter than his that peeks at him from the floor.

It's quiet and its fur is dark, black as Malik's hair.

He sticks his hand out from beneath the blanket to lift the cat under its covering and the feline settles against his chest with a deep purr. Altaïr falls asleep with hand in black fur and dreams of his husband.

 

* * *

 

 

Contrary to Kadar’s plans and expectations, Malik shoves his bed until it bumps into and connects with his, fits a spare blanket into the indentation of the break between two mattresses. He wants them to sleep together because that rarely, if ever, happened after Malik had married, and because he wishes to be close to Kadar tonight. Kadar accepts this set up without a word.

They lie in bed together, Malik on his back and Kadar attached to his flank, watching the dark early morning through grilled windows. Malik holds Kadar to his side in one arm and feels the weight of his wedding ring on the other. He slips the ring off and twirls it between his fingers while Kadar's clean scent appeases his nostrils. His brother’s body emanates a steady heat that reminds him of Altaïr's warmth.

Malik smiles because he suddenly understands he's been long too caught up in enjoying the intimacy of sharing a bed with someone to forfeit it now. It's nicer to have the reassuring presence of another body close to his own.

He lies with Kadar supine in his arms and sunk into the cushioning mattress like a rock in mud, like he hasn’t since childhood.

" _Akh_?"

"Hm?"

"Nothing, _akhi_. Just wanted to hear your voice." Kadar whispers.

Malik swears his heart melts right then and there. He presses his nose into Kadar's hair so he can breathe him in all night, tightens the arm around his back protectively. His other hand softly tugs the tufts of hair out into little spikes until Kadar drifts off under his touch.

Malik kisses him—he doesn’t quite kiss him—he lays unmoving lips against Kadar's temple and lingers there for a while, remembers how he spoiled his brother rotten with affection. He has spoiled Altaïr with love, too. He is concerned for Altaïr as much as he's concerned for Kadar; knowing his husband, he will march out too early like he's wont to do. Malik doesn't know what kind of deal Robert is striking up with them. For all Malik knows, it could be something altogether too far-fetched. This knowledge, or ignorance, prompts him to haste. From this moment on he hasn't got a day to lose, he must be quicker than Altaïr.

Malik takes a deep breath to calm the sudden urgency that surges within his core. He can't quell the sinking feeling of knowing that something big is about to happen.

He should sleep. Even one sleepless night can throw a body out of kilter and he will need all energy he can muster.

Malik attempts to force himself to sleep, but his eyes keep drifting open to look at the sunlight streaming through the windows. He listens to Kadar's deep breathing pattern for a long time and drifts in and out of sleep. When his internal clock deems it's around eight in the morning, he begins to stroke over Kadar's back.

"Kadar..." He whispers, lets his free hand brush up some of his hair. He plants one kiss over-and-over on a single spot on Kadar's forehead until he begins to stir, "Come on, wake up."

The azure of Kadar's eyes is what greets him first this morning. His blue eyes are staring up at him in concern, his face pinched in worry, mouth turned down in a frown. This look soon dissipates and Kadar falls into the hollow between Malik's shoulder and chest, stretches himself awake.

"Hey." His voice comes out gravelly and rasping from sleep.

"Looks like you got some sleep."

"Looks like you didn't." Kadar says with muffled voice, somehow knowing Malik hardly got a wink of sleep. He's not best pleased at having been woken, but they will need time to plan out and orchestrate their escape.

 

* * *

 

 

"You did _what_?!"

Altaïr and Ezio bellow in unison while the entire room stares at Connor. Connor's eyes flit between the two of them.

"I saw Robert De Sable." He sums up, calm as a millpond. He looks sooty all over, like a man just spat out by a brick oven.

"Connor," Altaïr starts, then falters. This boy is either a prodigy or a reckless idiot. Probably both. "When I sent you to track down our target, I meant roughly locate their whereabouts, not infiltrate their hideout."

Perhaps the lecture is not fair, but it’s necessary. Altaïr was once as young as Connor and thought himself invincible, lauded his own opinions above all else, and he was rash and stupid at times. Connor didn’t fail his mission, which makes his lecture all the more poignant. But it had been reckless. He didn’t put Connor to following De Sable. The boy could have been discovered. He could have been killed, their plans exposed, Malik and Kadar killed as well. He was eager to help, true, but at what cost, and at what risk?

"Have you remembered to map out your route at least?" Altaïr asks between massaging his temples and forehead. He feels like someone’s raking his brain from the inside, and the migraine isn’t aiding his case in the slightest.

Connor produces a decent sketch on a piece of besmirched paper and flattens it out on the table. It's odd, because there are two maps; one marks the hideout while the one below is a black maze of _something_. All occupants circle round to examine it, to read out the scribbled legend.

"How did you get through barb wire, Connor?" Altaïr asks with a flutter of alarm, "Please tell me you didn’t cut your way through."

"I’m not stupid."

Altaïr turns his attentions to him standing with arms crossed and leaves the map-deciphering to Ezio and Leonardo.

"I found an uneven-height break where one fence meets another and used it as leverage. I haven’t left a scrap of evidence behind." Connor trusts himself and Altaïr trusts him as well. He isn't one of their youngest initiates for nothing.

"Have you seen them?" Altaïr asks, his voice tinged with hope.

Connor deflates slightly before he offers a shake of head and looks to the side. "I don't know where they keep Malik and Kadar. The ventilation shafts don't go as far as there."

Ventilation shafts?

Altaïr's puzzled gaze drops to the black maze on the map, then on the legend. Indeed, it marks the second chart as a ventilation system.

 

* * *

 

 

When Sibrand visits them again at around 10 o'clock, he slips inside juggling two identical trays of food.

Malik eyes the opening crack of the steel-door with a sudden longing, but he knows a rash act wouldn't help anyone, and he prefers caution.

His eyebrow shoots up when he shifts his gaze to the huge plates and he feels very much like a pig before slaughter. There’s a veggie-packed omelet on each plate, topped off with mushrooms, slices of beef and cheese and toast. Two platters of pastry and croissants and a plump little French cake dipped in chocolate. Two glasses of hot water with tea bags dangling in it and two cups of steaming coffee.

He hears Kadar smack his lips over their breakfast.

" _Akh_ , this almost doesn’t look like captivity. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say we’re at a hotel."

"It’s not poisoned, is it?" Malik accepts this unorthodox generosity with a joke.

Sibrand pointedly eyes them while they laugh and start their meal, and Malik is sure watching them eat doesn’t fit his job description. The man has been barraging him with strange questions all morning.  It's clear from his hostile interrogation that he has an ax to grind on the issue of homosexuality.

Malik decides to humor him and see how far he can go.

He leaves the food aside and takes up the cup of coffee, leans back into his chair, draws an ankle up on knee and returns the stare. "Sibrand, there seems to be a non-zero chance that maybe you're not into women. Alternatively, you're bad at sex and consequently had only bad sex." Even Kadar turns to watch how the blond's neck and ears and cheekbones turn a brilliant red on his pallid skin with each new word, "You should try fucking a dude sometime. Hell, everybody should, but you especially. I bet you'd really love it."

"I bet I'd want to hang myself!" Sibrand all but shouts and claps the heavy door closed. The ensuing boom sends a detonation across the walls and makes them vibrate for a couple of seconds.

"Wow." Kadar awes with a mouthful, "Two parts bitter to one part butt-hurt." He gulps the toast down and looks across table, "That didn't sit too well with him."

Malik nurses his coffee with a gusto and doesn't give a shit.

 

* * *

 

 

"Are you sure?" Kadar finally asks, voice low.

Malik takes a deep breath and lets it out, coils his fingers tightly around two biggest metal bars of the blind-spot-window right across the steel-door. "Absolutely not, but we'll do it anyway."

Kadar nods, a trifle uncertain. "What if it doesn't work?"

"Let's save pessimism for better times." Malik gives an energetic shake-and-push and begins to shake up the entire bar-cage with a quick succession of forceful shoves and pushes until it begins to give a sound.

It's a deceptively easy task, and it's a very big might, but it's worth a try.

A low growl of frustration rips from his throat while he puts his best efforts into thrusting and shaking the bars out of wobbly core. Someone will probably notice the commotion.

Probably migrates to definitely as the rattling grows in power.

Malik pretends at being stunned when Jubair and a straw man scurry into their cell with guns at the ready. They put their hands up in admission of defeat, a beaten look on their face. Inwardly, they are anything but beaten. Jubair, a man typically cautious as Malik himself, has fallen for this unsophisticated trick.

Jubair inspects them with a touch of incredulity while he waits for the straw man to unscrew and fix the surveillance camera. Malik doesn't blame him for the baffled stare―only a fool would try to escape through this window. Fools or not, though, the camera is turned towards the former blind spot, where it's not needed, and there where it's needed is now clear.

"You're a genius." Malik laughs and picks Kadar up and whirls an entire circle with him in hold. When he puts him down Kadar is all grin and smiles, happy that his suggestion bore fruit and that the area before the exit is now unattended. They are in a better mood than when they started out as they return to quiet preparations.

They ponder, they think, they plot.

It’s decided. It must be done upon sundown. By the time they get out (Malik won’t think of any other possibility) it will be too dark to catch them in the cover of the surrounding forest.

 

* * *

 

 

Their arrangements on contriving a way to hack into the main chamber are not going swimmingly.

"I'll take the longest route, I've been there already." Connor insists.

"Aveline will take it. You are going with Desmond."

"Hey, I'm not going with him! He weighs at least twice as me. No offense to you, Connor."

"I wouldn't take that risk either, Altaïr." Ezio sighs, conceding Desmond's point.

Altaïr cradles his head over Connor’s findings with lines of worry ploughing his forehead. This brawl is getting them nowhere and time is running out. He wants to get Malik and Kadar out as soon as tonight. At least their gear is arriving via Leonardo's efforts while they scuffle over positions. He rubs and scratches furiously across his scalp and thinks back to Leonardo's approximations. The strength of the bolts holding the ventilation shafts will easily support two adults, it may bend but that is less of a worry since they are hidden from view. Still, he won't force any of them to crawl through tight tunnels if they're at least not slightly at ease.

"Alright then. If you're worried about the shafts not holding you two together, Connor can go alone." Connor retreats a step back with a pleased smile and lets the rest hover over the new mappings done by Leonardo. "Will you go with Desmond, Aveline? I can't break another duo up." Altaïr says knowing Aveline isn't best pleased with this arrangement. She wanted to take the longest route, the one circling half the building before stooping inwards towards the main chamber where the inner circle of Robert's nest dwells, the one Connor is assigned now. It ought to have been imparted unto her, by all logic―she is smallest in stature of them all, the quickest to get there without letting the rest wait out.

"Whatever you deem right, Altaïr. I've no objection to working with Des."

Altaïr looks over to Ezio, "Not afraid of going in tandem with me, old man?"

Ezio smirks and chuckles, "Less afraid of our combined weight, more concerned about what you might do alone. Someone needs to keep you on a leash." Altaïr scowls and takes the answer as he gets it. Ezio and him, it is then.

Connor on the longest route. Aveline and Desmond on the easiest. Ezio and Altaïr on the shortest but most intricate one.

A couple of hours stand between them and the break-in.

 

* * *

 

 

The monotony of their planning is broken by Sibrand's unexpected visit.

He seems to have settled down enough to talk to him again.

"Feel the itch to bitch again?" Malik smirks up at the blond. He is alone when he closes the door and basically shuts himself in along the brothers. There is a straw man he brought along guarding the door from outside, but Sibrand apparently doesn't want him to listen in on the conversation.

"I heard you tried to break through the window. How fucking stupid are you actually?"

Malik shrugs. He is in no mood to play stupid for Sibrand. And the man doesn't even look remotely interested in that particular topic. Somehow, Malik is not surprised. What does surprise him is Sibrand's question, and the way in which he asks it, the placating tone of his genuinely curious voice. 

"So... what do you guys like? You must be into things like bondage and office sex and that shit." Malik senses his embarrassment even when Sibrand hides his hands in pockets and tries to appear casual.

"Not really. I’m just into my husband."

"Ah, well." Sibrand takes a few uncoordinated steps around but doesn't stray far from the door, "It reminds me of my job: chained to this building while getting fucked in the ass by the rest." He chuckles weakly, unsure with his own jest. He is the kind of man Malik wouldn’t choose for a friend, but one whom he would point to the right direction if given enough incentive. And the lack of other enterprise at present offers a shady incentive.

"What are you trying to prove, Sibrand? That you were never beating your dick to a dude? A closet is a very lonely home, you can come out of it." The blond glues his gaze to the floor and avoids confrontation. He appears very much interested in what Malik has to say however. Malik feels his hostility dissolve the more Sibrand’s curiosity deepens, "With all due respect, women just often suck at pleasuring men. Most don’t excel at hand jobs, or blow jobs, they just can't do it as good as a man could. Sometimes only a dude can understand a dude." Sibrand is sinking into a deeper shade of embarrassment but acknowledges his words with silence.

Kadar does not.

" _Akh_ , I beg pardon, but I personally just _love_ the way women―"

"Shut up, Kadar."

"Okay." He chirps crisply. He butts out of the conversation which is already finished as Sibrand knocks for the guard outside to unlock the door and steals out in pensive quietude.

Malik watches him leave without a parting word, hopes that the world is left bereft of another idiot today. He is contented with the knowledge of having talked some sense into Sibrand.

The next time they see him, it will be the last before they break out.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's start this countdown, shall we...

 

The plan is bulletproof.

They have worked out all possible and impossible scenarios. They are ready for improvisation and ad-libbing, set up and stealthy. There are two vehicles in total: one car and a high-tech van vested upon Leonardo's care. The vehicles are recessed into a cover of shrubbery, some distance down from Robert's hideout, hidden in plain sight.

Altaïr is conducting some last-minute tests while the rest of the team adjusts their overalls, checks the weapons and technicalities.

Leonardo is truly a genius. Everything they wear, weapons excluded, is designed by this single man, every creation a harmonious symbiosis of more elements. The light vests they wear he designed as ballistic protection, an amalgam of Kevlar and polyethylene. Their gloves are thin but sturdy and sensitive to touchscreen, their clothing rich with pockets for each and every purpose. He feels the weight of his guns on his hips, the bulk of tools on his thighs, inspects the shape of leather-bound blades across his vest. The palm-sized GPS navigator with pre-installed ventilation route fixed upon his wrist like a watch is simultaneously a powerful flashlight with an endurance far longer than they'll need. Hopefully.

Altaïr lifts the dangling respirator mask to his lips, blows air into it, and watches _the famiglia_ around him flinch and groan. They're connected through a constant sound transfer, connected as one body and mind.

"Move your asses." He orders into the mic installed snugly within the confines of the mask. His voice is a low tone, but with mics and earpieces turned on high, it can easily pass for a shout. He adjusts his own earpiece and his protection glasses, watches as Leonardo hops off the van to offer parting words and leaves the two paramedics behind to unpack their supplies alone.

Leonardo gathers them into a circle, helps Ezio fix his mask into place and embraces Altaïr and Aveline, the two assassins flanking him. This clasp is carried on until they've formed a tight ring.

"Equip yourself with patience and fortitude, children. Safety and peace be upon you."

"Safety and peace." They echo as one before they leave Leonardo on watch with the paramedics and steal up the hill into the night, following Connor's lead.

There is a relatively short distance to sneak up through thick undergrowth and greenery, one crossed in utter silence and pitch-black darkness with the security lights of the hideout as a distant beacon. It's going too slow for Altaïr's taste and haste, but Ezio pushes him back each time he attempts to quicken his step, and he has agreed to let Ezio precede him.

He has to calm down, or he is compelled to do more harm than good. What benefit would it be destroying their only chance at a stealthy attack through rash foolishness if it directly harmed his family.

Their break-in is a virile adventure masterfully executed.

They circle round the structure through the forest, to the rear of the building where a wired corner rises to accommodate the hilly ground and leaves them the advantage of height-difference. Connor leads them up the point of his former entry, kneels and props his knee squarely to offer leverage. Desmond advances first, finds a safe hand and foot hold, maneuvers himself over the three-line barb wire without getting scratched or cut. While he waits for the rest to follow he deposits a bolt cutter at the foot of the corner pole, one of the two they carry. Should they be unable to leave via main entrance they can always cut their way through instead of mounting the fence again. After they regroup Connor continues to lead the way to a backroom or chamber, uses a torque wrench to pick the lock while Desmond keeps a flash on it. It's easy enough a task; the worst yet awaits them.

Once inside, they assemble in front of a complex edifice of metal air-handling units comprised of several huge boxes. There is a drone and a deep whirr of machines before they collapse the exhaust fans (they leave on the supply-air grills) and open the corresponding box that extends inwardly into the first supply duct leading up and disappearing into the ceiling. Desmond and Connor take the fan compartment out of the box and peel off the final filters with activated carbon until the path is cleared.

They look to Altaïr for approval.

"May gods have mercy on my enemies, for I shall not."

"Amen." Desmond speaks above a whisper and turns to watch Connor scramble his way inside the box first and then up the duct. It's wide enough to squeeze through (thanks to the giant scale of this hideout), but it doesn't look all that comfortable. There is a squeak of combat boots and a thunderous sound as Connor pushes up the short distance before leveling out into the first horizontal tunnel with a strained grunt that resonates through their earpieces.

"Next." Connor green lights and evens his breath through his nose, waits for the rest in the first branching corridor. Second in are Desmond and Aveline, in that order, then Ezio followed by Altaïr as the last of them.

 

* * *

 

 

Kadar stands in the former blind-spot leaning against the window, smiles apologetically up the surveillance camera and waves purposefully at it.

Waiting time expired.

He swallows the nervous lump in his throat, clears it, takes a huge gulp of breath. He doesn't wait more than a couple of minutes for someone to show up, but it feels like an eternity and like a blink of a moment at the same time. Their plan is not entirely unfeasible, but difficult to carry out. This is made worse when the steel-door unlocks to reveal Jubair, not Sibrand that they have awaited. As luck would have it, Jubair is alone.

He asks Kadar's business with a single twitch of an eyebrow.

"Evening. My brother is sick and I've only this to give him." Kadar thrusts out his arm, but leaves his hand curled to hide the decoy. Jubair's gaze only fleetingly drops to his hand, as he is hardly persuaded by this to encroach the territory inside the cell like Sibrand is wont of doing. He frowns, letting Kadar know that he doubts the candidness of his inquiry.

Kadar fists his hand and lifts both up where they are visible. "Geez, Jubair, who pissed in your cornflakes? My brother doesn't feel well, we just need some medicine, is all."

The mafioso decides to open up a little after a thorough inspection of the cell. "Where is your brother?"

"In the bathroom." Kadar counters, offers his palm for a renewed scrutiny. Jubair is prompted into a few steps, but he never gets the chance to enter the surveillance area because Kadar draws back his hand and says:

"Say, did this attention-grabber grab your attention?"

Malik's entrance is quiet, shrewd, neat.

There's scarce a second passé before he slinks out from behind the steel-door and connects the back of Jubair’s skull with the rung of chair they had snapped off earlier. The hefty whack on head sends the man into an immediate sprawl across the floor. Kadar steps out of camera range in calm steps, jumps over Jubair to check for guards outside while Malik maneuvers the body against the wall and into a hunch.

"Is he alive?" Kadar asks in a voice laced with concern.

"Yes," Malik confirms while he feels around Jubair's pockets but finds absolutely nothing of worth except a single gun, "He'll have a raving headache once he wakes up though."

"Well, that was fun. Let's never do that again." Kadar says, watches Malik check the safety of the gun before offering it to him. Kadar looks a bit wide-eyed at this silent proposition.

Conflict dances in his deep-blue hues while Malik observes him. A few moments later Kadar holds the weapon in his hands, but his forehead is daubed in sweat. He can’t kill a man. He can’t shoot at a breathing body—he wasn’t prepared for that, never learned to do it, never had reason to. Malik gives the weapon to him for his own protection, but he hopes it won't come to the worst. He doesn't want to leave a stain on Kadar's conscience.

Malik shifts the steel-door an inch away from the wall to slip back into his earlier cover where he had deposited a makeshift carrier bag crafted from blankets and filled with blankets. He could identify no other usable items inside this cell, but hopefully he'll come across other valuables during their journey out.

"What if it doesn't work, _akhi_?" Kadar asks with a worry that's worming its way through early courage.

"You're a pessimist as always." Malik says and slings the bag over his shoulder, shifts it across his back to keep his arms free, "Perhaps you're right. I hope you're wrong."

"I hope so too, believe me." And Kadar clasps him into an embrace that troubles Malik. When they separate Malik goes to debouch from the cell and into the wider area, peeks at the halls outside as Kadar had done earlier. Nothing seems out of place, which is only moderately reassuring. He feels Kadar lean onto him and he pulls him along when he leaves their ex-prison. They will turn right, to the direction Malik came from when they brought him here.

Malik slowly closes the steel-door until the lock falls into place and doesn't spare it another look. He is revisiting the route he had mapped out upon his arrival and doesn't notice a countdown ticking by without their knowledge, until it gives out a warning signal. Both brothers turn to look at the display where the lock-system demands a confirmation code after locking the door.

They have none to give.

What is at first an annoying beep of caution morphs into a screeching sound of an alarm that alerts the entire building.

" _Shit_."

 

* * *

 

 

"Move your carcass, man!"

"Wait—this isn't on the map."

Aveline grunts and Desmond oomphs and there is some clatter that sounds like he's dropped off into some blind alley.

Altaïr lies with his head sunk inside bent elbows, presses the mask further into his jaw and mouth, and listens to the two of them bicker via sound transfer. The team has advanced from the basement onto higher grounds only slowly, with the exception of Connor who despite having the bulkiest stature has probably scampered off half his distance by now.

Altaïr waits behind Ezio who is working on a fan motor that stands in their path. He's grown used to this constrictive way of travel, but he itches to stretch himself. The ducts are dark as the night itself, but if he looks up and points his flashlight at Ezio's form, he can make out the movement of an outstretched arm working in a peculiar motion to unscrew the frame of the fan. The vents and ventilation in its entirety is a rather new installment, the screws are not rusted and go off easily enough under the care of a deft hand, especially since Connor preceded them in this task only hours ago when he first broke into the hideout.

The fearless courage of that boy.

It's difficult enough crawling through cramped and confined space with nowhere to turn even without claustrophobia, but doing all this without a proper mask for hours and in the face of an air flow resembling a vacuum cleaner is an ordeal beyond imagination. Altaïr makes a mental note to return this favor in future.

There is little he can bemoan in present circumstances; even though the ducts they traverse aren't cold-air-return ducts, they aren't scalding-hot steam ducts, and the entire system is shut down in contrast to Connor's lone exploration. The ducts are not filthy with dirty muck either. From what it seems, they have been put to use recently and they are not greasy, but the smoking habits of De Sable's men Connor had fleetingly mentioned seem to account for the layer of grime and soot that have accumulated inside shafts.

Most ducting in the building is too narrow to be navigable, and the more spacious ones don't mind going vertically up and down to generate inconvenient routes, but at least there aren't turning vanes inside these round shafts—they would be a pain in the arse to remove. Altaïr distributes his weight evenly during the journey, keeps some of it on his legs and mostly slides through rather than crawling, climbs down drops in shafts with painstaking care, descends down curving paths without a noise. Doing all this with a body ratio resembling that of Connor must be at least mildly terrifying.

Speaking of the devil.

"Altaïr?"

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Connor whispers, his voice lower than that of the rest, "Checkpoint reached. Over."

"How are you even human, mouseling?" Ezio answers in tacit praise and grunts with strain while he lays the fan out of their path, then pockets the screwdrivers. It'll be a tight fit, but Altaïr will squeeze his way through just as Ezio is doing in this very moment.

"How many, Connor?" He asks after leaving this obstacle behind and trailing after Ezio.

"All except Jubair. One straw-man."

"Only one?"

"They are coming in and out."

Altaïr can barely hear the whisper of Connor's voice by now, but he commends the boy's caution. One lesson well-learned today. He leaves further questions aside and gropes his way out of the tunnel down a sheer drop and into another corridor where two ducts meet. They veer left. There shouldn't be much left before their last stop. He follows Ezio closely because the man doesn't mind the proximity of his weight, careful to avoid any noises and conspicuous clamber through ventilation.

"Connor?" Aveline calls through the line.

"Yes?"

"You've got a slap due once we're out." She scolds, and Desmond is quick to quip in:

"Double that."

"What's wrong?" Altaïr asks while directing Ezio with a beam of light down another descent gradually sloping into a curving spiral.

"We're lost. Turns out Connor's map isn't that accurate, after all."

"We're not lost." Aveline huffs and sighs. Her frustration is understandable, and Altaïr won't speak against it. "We just strayed from the course."

"Well this isn't the main chamber, I tell you." Desmond speaks from what is probably an interesting unexpected discovery.

"Just don't end up in a boiler room by mistake, you two."

"Des, get up here."

Altaïr listens to Desmond pant into the mic while he presumably climbs out of what is a vacant room with Aveline's assistance. Once they resume their journey and even out their breathing, Desmond speaks up once more.

"The good news is we can open the grilles real quick."

"Yeah?"

"Yep. Tested it out on that one. A good kick will do, just make sure you enter your last tunnel legs-first." He instructs causing Ezio to halt mid-way through their final passageway with the intake grille at its finish. From here, Altaïr can hear a group of men talk disparagingly, their words mildly distorted. He watches Ezio crawl back to rotate around, hears Connor through the line doing the same where he is situated, in the shaft all across the room. They are facing each other this time when Altaïr follows Ezio in utter silence and turns off the flashlight he no longer has use for as light streams generously between the shutters of the grille before them.

Ezio eases into the bell-mouth with a wary step, leaves a gap for Altaïr to observe while they wait for Aveline and Desmond to assume their own position. The grille plate is connected via proxy to the bell-mouth of the duct, fit into a wider frame rather than screwed into it, and may indeed be lobbed off by a powerful kick.

The last duo is about to descend into their final checkpoint when a sound more frightening than anything Altaïr had heard in life reverberates across the room below them, throughout the galvanized steel of ducts, and within Altaïr's chest.

It's this sickening squeal and shriek of warning sirens and the realization that something is terribly wrong that wraps around Altaïr's inner core and begins to constrict it, corroding it with its dark presence.

" _Someone fucking set off the alarm_!" He hisses in consternation.

"It wasn’t me." Desmond peeps up through the line, mortified as the rest of them.

Ezio doesn't wait for joint orders.

He growls and hurls off the vent after two hefty kicks, plucks out a smoke grenade from a pocket, pulls at the trigger ring and chucks it inside the main chamber before he follows after. Altaïr is quick on his tail.

On the other side of the room, Connor does the same, then descends down into the wild uproar of shouts and coughing.

Altaïr rips his earpiece off the moment he sees Desmond and Aveline whoosh into the chamber and into its pandemonium.

When two angry gangs replete with weaponry clash within a closed space, there's not much beside bullets whizzing by and grunts of battle during the occasional hand-to-hand combat. The first few minutes of this attack are crucial. There is a mishmash of smoke, warning sirens, a confusion of voices they use to kick the available opponents out of weapons. They are outnumbered but not by a great number—their quintet against six of Robert's men excluding the Boss. He knows each and every one of them by face and voice.

The cracks of their defense are beginning to show.

Altaïr is trying to locate De Sable himself and check on others while sending Talal to ground with a nasty blow on the head, but in the ensuing minute of pell-mell it's difficult enough looking out for yourself and taking down enemies nearest to you, those left without chance to draw weapons, let alone looking out for others. But Aveline manages to do just this when De Sable, recovered from the smoke, launches an attack on Altaïr who turns too preoccupied with wrecking the resisting Talal as his rage takes over where good sense should have prevailed.

Robert is in mid-stride towards him, hand on hip feeling for his gun but his attempt is thwarted when Aveline lunges at the Boss, throws herself into his flank with a roaring battle cry and pitches the man out of balance. Robert is Altaïr's kill and she won't shoot at him. The two of them work in tandem to subdue Robert, with Aveline leaving him bereft of weapon and Altaïr chucking him out with the butt of his gun and an angry kick to the chest when he tries to rise.

The smoke is filtering out and De Sable's men realize they are defeated and surrounded, watch the dying tumult of the battle they lost before they could properly start it.

 _The famiglia_ is moving in from all sides, scuffling the enemy towards the center of the room. The contrast in losses is gaping; there is not a scratch left on them, not a single bullet that hit target, while the inner circle of Robert's clan kneels bloody and beaten in the center of the chamber, their straw-man dead, their Boss forced to his knees before them with Altaïr leering over him.

Altaïr keeps his gun pointed at Robert, passes a look over the rest.

Majd Addin bleeding profusely from his fat belly and grunting in pain, restrained into kneeling by Ezio's weapon, Tamir with a dislocated shoulder and William attended by Connor, Talal with a broken-and-bleeding nose guarded by Aveline, Desmond to her right side watching sourly over Sibrand who looks least touched by this brief battle.

"Turn the camera on, Des." Altaïr orders when the two of them share a look. Desmond scowls and keeps the gun pointed to the back of Sibrand's skull, but moves sideways towards the tripod a little to their side to do as Altaïr has commanded.

Ezio heaves a sigh because he knows they are about to witness a grotesque escapade. He doesn't condone this approach, but very little of whatever he could say would influence Altaïr in a significant way.

Altaïr is caught in a staring contest with Robert who gives off an air of a man who hasn't been defeated along his entire inner circle only minutes ago, and he smirks at Altaïr from below, his face blackening with something dangerous and wicked, his eyes gleaming in a kind of animal ferocity. Nothing—nothing but the kneeling posture of this man—suggests that Robert recognizes that his life is hanging on a thin thread.

Never was there a blacker or a ﬁercer scowl on Altaïr's face than now.

"Where are they?"

Robert chuckles up at him without reticence, amused.

"You're not a bad sort of man, Altaïr. There's just a rash fury in you—"

Altaïr cuffs him across the face with an angry fist. Robert assumes his earlier position with a split lip, flashes another grin, bloody.

"Where. Are. They?"

"Tell him." Ezio prompts in wishing to cut this endless chase for answers, "You may yet keep your life."

A derisive sort of laughter rips from Robert's throat as he turns to face Ezio. "You think so, hm?"

Altaïr seizes him by the scruff of neck, a manic look in amber eyes while he snarls into Robert's face, "Speak or I'm gonna cut out your liver and _feed_ it to the dogs!"

"You’re too late, you stupid mongrel." The Frenchman spits back, sends a spittle of crimson-red across Altaïr's lowered mask, but sooths himself down with uncanny speed. Behind him, not a man of his is stirring.

Robert smiles up at him like someone who came to a morbid understanding of himself as a man already dead: any additional time that he survives from now on will be a bonus.

The slant of lips expands into an ugly grin. Like a wolf that grins before it barks, before it sinks its jaws into the soft flesh of an enemy.

"First I fucked him..."

Altaïr thinks it would have felt less painful if he'd just plunged a knife into his stomach.

"... I made his whelp of a brother watch and cry while I raped him. I killed them, and then I threw their bodies into a sewer..." Robert ends with a chuckle, a last sadistic grin that wouldn't leave his face.

Robert's men, even wounded Majd Addin, kneel in a quietude, their heads stooping low.

Blind fury and grief don’t settle within Altaïr as much as pierce him through like a spear does to a wounded beast.

He is experiencing a sensation not altogether physical, like standing on the edge off a cliff and wanting to scream while he hangs off its outermost ridge and wanting to let a howl rip through his deadened throat.

"You took away the only thing that gave me purpose in this shit you call life...?"

"Altaïr..." whispers Ezio with a mien of forced calmness, though in utmost shock like the rest of the Brotherhood. Altaïr doesn't listen. He doesn't even hear. Ezio does not exist in his new world, only Robert. Robert and nothing but inexpressible sorrow.

There is a dark transﬁguration on Altaïr's face which shifts under the weight of misery while he stares into Robert's bloody face.

"I expected you to hold your word..." Altaïr whispers.

"As did I. Expectation is the root of all heartache... Some argue Shakespeare himself said that."

Robert awards him with his last smirk, gloats over Altaïr's defeat.

Altaïr smiles back at him bitterly, drops his gun. No word comes off his lips when he lowers into a crouch and laughs brokenly. Not a soul around him shifts.

Something is swelling in the air and ready to burst any second, but until then the best thing any of the Brotherhood can do is wait with guns pointed at enemies and watch out for Altaïr's safety. Altaïr peers up at Robert with death glaring from his eyes. When he drives himself forward in a speed unearthly there is a blade in his hand and a wounded cry of a grief-stricken man, and Robert's throat is slit before anyone knows what's occurred.

Altaïr doesn't stop there.

He follows when Robert keels over, kneels suspended over his still breathing body, his cruelty rears its ugly head. The blade is shifted within his grasp until both hands grip at the hilt and plummet down with a cry wrung from the depth of his soul.

 _The famiglia_ lets him pour out his immediate emotions into the kill and holds silence even as the great scene of grief tears at their hearts.

Altaïr's rage reigns unchecked. It’s blind and detached from the world, spurred on by a tremendous grief where each wild, wicked stab seems at once involuntary and intentional, growing out of a profounder pain, deeper than a weak and puny impulse of reason.

Altaïr roars himself hoarse, the man a demon offspring of Furies themselves wielding the bloody scourge at an enemy already dead. Blood flows and spurts in abundance, sprays across Altaïr and the floor where it mixes with torn bits of unrecognizable innards, the body Altaïr cuts open is a sickening mess of broken bone and blood and intestine and tatters of shredded clothing.

The defeated enemy kneels unmoving and listens to each and every squelch of Altaïr’s blade against the insides of their Boss, aware that the same will find them should they budge.

Altaïr stills his blade only after the muscles of his arms give out at last, his voice suddenly stops, leaving them in stark silence.

Ezio feels regret and sorrow at having allowed the young blood of the Brotherhood he loves like his children to witness this. The three of them stand tense like bowstrings, their faces contorted with anguished sympathy. Ezio's chest tightens so brutally he can't breathe as he watches Altaïr ascend from Robert's massacred corpse and break into horrible laughter, ghostly and unnatural. He used to have some influence over Altaïr, during what he feels was an entire lifetime ago. Now there is virtually nothing he can do or say that would break through Altaïr's head or heart. He keeps his gun leveled at the enemy and keeps an eye on _the famiglia_ who share Altaïr's agony, switches between them and Altaïr.

Altaïr tosses the blade to the side where it falls with a wet-and-bloody clatter.

He strides off the corpse of a man bludgeoned to death with a knife’s blade, pelted by a number of stabs Brutus himself would envy, deformed and unrecognizable _._

Altaïr steps on and walks across the cooling blood of his kill without qualms with eyes shining unnaturally, looking like a manic lunatic with a wild look in his eye and splatters of drying blood across his entire front and face. He looks heartbroken to the point of madness. Ezio has never seen him thus.

Even more ominously, his face begins to take on a look of insidious evil.

Robert's death seems to have given him only a momentary relief during the midst of his deepest suffering, but it didn't cure his affliction. He cocks his head at the kneeling hostages before him, grief masking his ability to see past revengeful machinations.

"Shakespeare, is it?" Altaïr gives a hollow laugh, "To be or not to be... To kill or not to kill, that is the question. What follows?" He asks like a man teetering on the brink of sanity. Ezio scowls darkly, unsure where Altaïr is heading with this, but his reaction is easily overlooked.

A look of confusion passes between the kneeling figures.

"You." Altaïr points to Majd Addin with his other gun he pulls from the holster, "Go on."

The wounded man looks to his immediate neighbor in quizzical silence, but no word comes forth.

Altaïr aims at him again, this time cocking the gun safety to prove the serious nature of his demand.

"To be or not to be, that is the question," Majd Addin echoes, fishes for lines through muddled memory and through the pain of the former shot, "Whether it's nobler in the mind to suffer the... the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune..." On and on goes his strained voice until Altaïr shoots a bullet straight through his working mouth.

His dismal cry rings sharply through the chamber before he swoons with a wet gurgle and collapses into a bloody heap. Altaïr moves on unfazed, and commences an ugly vindication deficient in tact and reason, an act of a man with nothing now to lose, with no hope and seemingly no wish to gain anything through this cruel revenge for the death of his family.

"Continue." Altaïr commands to Talal, a man not next in order but waiting on the death-row nonetheless.

"Fuck you, you miserable bastard."

Sibrand next to him flicks a gaze at Talal from his low droop of head, white like a sheet. He flinches and recoils when Altaïr starts to riddle Talal's face with bullet holes and makes a grisly and blood-chilling sight. Altaïr's gun is out of ammo before the corpse can keel over. Three hostages remain.

Sibrand rejoices in elation and sends a silent prayer out after Altaïr opts for Tamir next.

"The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune?" He prods and picks up the loaded gun he had dropped off earlier, before Robert's death. A couple of moments pass but no word falls from Tamir's mouth but many a drop of sweat. William beside him speaks up instead, having understood that his brother-in-arms is not familiar with _Hamlet_. Death will come to him either way, better sooner than later, he concludes.

"Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them..." William begins with an eerie peace, "To die, to sleep—"

Altaïr sends a bullet through William's lung and turns to Tamir, but the Englishman goes on.

"—No more, and by a sleep to say we end the heartache, and the thousand natural shocks... that flesh is heir to—" He rasps through the coughing spasms that rack his body until Connor above him takes pity and lays the muzzle of his weapon against the back of his skull, and shoots. The body collapses forward into the bloody gore of his brothers, but before it manages to do so Altaïr has finished Tamir off without waiting for words.

Sibrand is what separates them from the utter destruction of the clan's inner circle and all turn to the kneeling figure, Altaïr to quench his thirst for blood and revenge and the rest to put an end to this ordeal.

"Wait—" The blond stutters and begins to rise, but Desmond shoves him down onto chafed knees with a snarl.

"Wait, I must speak—!" Sibrand begs insistent and frightened. Altaïr pulls him up into an uncomfortable half-kneeling position by the lapels of his suit and hisses:

"Why don’t you die along with your master like the rest?"

"I was never truly welcomed into the group," Sibrand asserts in a flurry of rushed words, moving on quickly, "and your husband opened my eyes."

Altaïr growls beastly, his nostrils flare in ire and splatters of blood seem to glow on his face while he snarls at the mention of Malik.

"What do _you_ know of him?" He sends Sibrand into a hefty shake, but doesn't release the grip, "Speak up, worm, before I stamp you to death!"

"I know that he might still be alive!"

Altaïr recoils and drops him like a hot iron. He puts the muzzle of his gun to Sibrand's forehead little after the man clambers to knees.

"Linger a while longer and speak sense." Altaïr prompts, his voice hesitant towards the end where it's drenched in hope.

"He broke out of his cell right before you demolished this place and he set the alarm off. Some of the outer circle were sent to track him down. He may yet live if you reach him quick enough." Sibrand doesn't stop for breath during the course of his explanation, nor does he breathe while awaiting Altaïr's reaction.

"If what you claim is true, then your own life may be spared." Altaïr holsters his gun and Sibrand can breathe again, "I’d tell you to go to hell, but Lucifer himself wouldn't welcome a sniveling coward like yourself."

The insult is hardly an insult after all that was sent his way during his lifetime. Sibrand is happy that Altaïr is leaving his personal space to round up his brotherhood for the rescue search and happy for having opened up to Malik. He kneels and sways in the pool of blood, a mantra of jumbled prayers to whatever gods saved his life tonight spills forth from his mouth while Altaïr orders Connor to wring the locking-code out of him and keep a watch.

"Spread out," Ezio's voice cuts into their swelling dread and rouses them from the former state of dismay, rings through the chamber, "Clustering like this isn't going to help anyone. Disperse!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bamf Malik ahoy.

Malik follows a simple but carefully constructed pattern. Don’t get killed and get Kadar out. Preferably unharmed.

This is difficult enough with a stealthy escape which they had initially planned (why else take out Jubair where a camera can’t see it), but with the alarm boldly announcing their intentions this is somewhat of an obstacle, to put it mildly. Who would have thought that the security doors need both an unlocking and after-locking code. That's clever, but it’s in-fucking-sane.

"Keep your finger off the trigger and keep your hand clear while you shoot, the slide will snap back," Malik reiterates the lesson he has started near the cell while they tear down a hall with the screech of sirens in their wake, "Everything ahead of it is danger zone―avoid sweeping and pay attention to how you're holding it."

Kadar is listening intently because it calms him to listen to Malik's firm confidence that speaks louder than the alarm. He keeps his finger off trigger and the weapon downrange, keeps his eyes ahead and runs in step with his brother but following his lead.

At first look, nothing seems much off aside from the blaring sound.

Lines of bulbs cast an eerie white glow over everything while they sprint through windowless halls that follow on like a tedious argument. They have to cover a long track before the polished steel of first doors leaps into the glare of bulbs. Malik estimates that at least sixty percent of this structure is unused, closed and locked off, but there must be at least one door unbolted on these lower stories and leading a way through windows or another kind of exit. One door is all they need. One side exit, or one window on lower grounds before they can descend all the way down to the main chamber which is off-limit as a passageway.

The sirens overhead cease abruptly leaving behind a deafening silence and forcing them to slow into wary steps and whispers to avoid being detected by potentially nearby enemies.

Malik stops after a single try to shoulder open a door which doesn't inch under his efforts, then falls silent.

They share a look and listen for other sounds in the deafening quiet of the halls. From now on they must speak in whispers and walk in steps instead of dashing across floors. The floors are a dirty-white, most walls a beige split by a metal railing in its middle, the ceiling tiled in pure white, and each sound echoes and is carried down the lengths of this network of halls.

None of the doors in this one are unlocked. Malik regrets not having a bobby pin or anything of like nature on him. That way he could at least have tried to pick-lock these smaller doors.

Kadar lifts his foot and kicks at the door in a bout of frustration without hope of success and Malik puts a hand upon his shoulder to both soothe him and pull him along.

They travel down the hall until it branches out, quiet and listening for guards.

They are at a crossroads with three paths stretching on before them. Malik knows his map by heart, but he wonders if it would be wiser to opt for some other choice and thinks on how time-consuming it would be examining all three. They haven't got time. They haven't got more than thirty minutes, that's the peak of generosity Malik can grant himself.

He chooses left at last, the route across the one he came from.

They begin to ease in into the midmost of the slight curve of this new hall, wordless until they reach its shapely end where the way stretches out right-ahead again, but with no doors in sight.

Malik's arm shoots out behind his back to halt Kadar whose duty is to watch their rear while Malik scouts ahead.

There is a man at the finish of this hall.

He holds a gun at his side, his profile turned to them while he examines what is probably another crossroads.

Malik doesn't heave a breath and pushes them back slowly as not to make a noise while they retreat, but the curving wall doesn't manage to cover them whole in the moment the man turns to look.

"Hey!" He yells, a straw-man Malik doesn't recognize, and starts after them when they fall from his sight.

He shouts an onslaught of threats at them while he chases after but he doesn't shoot. They must have been ordered not to injure during this hunt. An order Malik certainly doesn't defer to.

The second they find themselves at the crossroads they came from Malik veers right without a word and yanks Kadar along, thrusts him deeper into the hall while he takes cover at the very corner. Kadar wonders what the hell is going on while they listen for the running steps of the guard and when they hear the man heedlessly rushing after, Malik praises sweet stupidity.

To Kadar's utter shock, Malik ditches his cover before the man can rush past them, leaves him little time to do anything but run straight into Malik's solidified and outstretched arm. His fist, aimed above the midpoint of the man's collarbone, takes quite a blow, but he is prepared. The power of this collision sends Malik backwards and he bends to scramble out of the way of the man's sprawling legs when his foothold slips and hurls him onto his back across the floor.

Malik kicks aside the gun that has slipped out of his grasp. The man groans―he is not knocked out―and Malik drops down with little care to grasp the man's skull and slam the back of his head into hard ground. He is one crunch away from causing a catastrophic brain injury when Kadar pulls at his shoulders with a great protest, and Malik drops the man unconscious but alive.

"Don't kill him..." Kadar pleads in a whisper and Malik grants him the wish, shakes the surge of energy out of his muscles before he takes to plunder. Kadar takes up his own weapon again and carefully delivers the newly-acquired gun to Malik, crouches next to him and watches their surroundings for other guards. He feels rather naked in this exposed location, at the joint of four different halls.

When Malik turns the unconscious man to the side there is blood where his skull is cracked and he lets him drop to spare Kadar the gory sight. Malik stumbles upon only one item of use, but one possessed of such great worth that Malik wouldn't mind it being their last valued find on this journey.

It’s a handsome stiletto, slim enough to slip between ribcage and into the heart, with double-edged and razor-sharp surface that wouldn’t get stuck in bone. Malik is one for precision rather than slashing power; he doesn’t like to make a death sentence longer than a few seconds. This must be an illegal loot only a mafia could pull off, but Malik would keep this blade as a memento if― _when_ ―they get out. He takes the entire sheathe off and straps it to his own belt. If all guards are as bright as this one, he may well get them out by means of his bare hands without a single shot fired. He won't praise the day before sunset though, life has taught him as much.

They don't take the same way they've been chased out of.

Malik ushers them back to the road familiar to him, hoping that at least one unlocked door will present itself on their way towards the main chamber. But they are out of luck. There are two, both equally barred.

They stand at the mouth of the hallway which hosts the entrance to the main chamber with nowhere to go but turn back to where they just came from. He knows Kadar is growing restless, he isn't doing any better himself, but they freeze in step when a ring of bullet-shots embeds into the reinforced door separating them from the main chamber.

They hear a commotion and the bark of guns in the distance, and it’s not good.

It’s not fucking good at all.

They retreat in as much haste as they can manage, pass the unconscious figure of the man Malik had looted for weapons, and descend into another maze of long hallways. There's no finesse in their route anymore, no purposeful or strategic following of a certain path. The hall they enter turns left, veers left and right and ahead, and Malik is losing his head.

There's no end to this clusterfuck.

They debouch into a passage opened out into a hall so long Malik literally can't see the end of it. It's peppered with sideway paths here and there, both left and right, and they must thread carefully in this wider space until they decide which side-route to take.

At first glance, there isn't much that seems wrong. This main way is dimmer, the lights overhead flicker intermittently. They have barely crossed a couple of steps when noise puts them to another standstill. By the sound of it, by the mutter of voice and the footsteps echoing from the side hall to their right, it's more than one man. Malik eases into the junction of two halls, sneaks the briefest of peeks from where he is hidden by the wall.

This time there are two and they carry weapons, and this time Malik won't be able to spare lives.

He turns to Kadar standing guard behind him, lowers his brother's head with a gentle pressure on his nape. Their foreheads touch and Malik keeps them there, gives directions to him in the barest of whispers. Kadar nods in understanding and nudges Malik's head along. He is supple to instruction and swift and flushed, his eyes are candidly eager. Malik loathes marring his chaste excitement with death.

"Just don't freeze up." Malik whispers into his temple, tightens his hold into an affectionate grip before release.

Malik doesn't risk another peek, but he listens to nearing steps until he deems the man close enough for his liking. He doesn't leave the cover as much as bolts from it like a coiled spring, fetches the first man to thrust him back into Kadar's territory and makes a dash for the other opponent. Two things occur then.

Kadar materializes before the first man still recovering from the stumble, snaps his fist out and wrecks the man across the nose like Malik had showed him. The guard folds up and covers the source of blinding pain with a hand, drops the other to the side where his weapon rests. An entire ocean of energy courses Kadar's veins when he grasps at the man's neck and plunges him low, down into the summit of his bent knee. His knee juts up in a hard kick and there is a grunt and a whole lot of blood and Kadar doesn't know if he's killed a man, but he has no time nor courage to mull it over.

Malik, like Kadar, doesn't even try to grab his weapon, just runs at the other straw-man before he can turn his front to Malik. The man takes to twisting his head to investigate the sounds, in vain. Malik winds his hand around the man’s forehead, pulls his head back to slit open his neck with the stiletto, severs his jugular. The kill is swift. The man dies in Malik’s arms in less than four seconds.

He doesn't loot the body but looks back to see Kadar's progress.

Kadar is now keeping his gun pointed at the man, wearing a look which would betray nothing of his inability to shoot people to death, but this look crumbles when Malik steals up behind the guard, blade in hand. Malik can't shrug off his pleading look. He sheathes the blade and addresses the man who twists sideways to look at him.

"Be grateful he spared your life."

The man skims a look back to Kadar and Malik uses this chance to wrench him into a rear choke. "Don't resist," Malik hisses when the man starts to dig into his choking arms. Nine seconds and his frontal cortex shuts down under the pressure. Malik maintains the vicious grip until the man slumps unconscious. He lays him out across the floor and rolls his shoulders back, stretches his muscles as he cleans the blade off previous kill on the man's clothes. It doesn't help much; his sheathe is bloody. They leave them, a breathing body and a corpse, and tiptoe on.

Kadar's excitement has faded into a silent gloom. As they move on into the next convenient route, Malik is toying with the idea of switching tactics. Their stealth went down the toilet anyway, he might well take the next man captive and find an exit via threatening or torture. Desperate times call for desperate measures. The guards seem to spawn with the intensity of his wish to find a way of egress.

They don't hear or sense this one though. He stands at the end of a hall, the entrance of which they carelessly stumble into.

There is a moment of frozen astonishment before any brother budges.

Malik leaves Kadar where he stands, starts towards the man.

The gray figure looks back before Malik can reach him and he is forced to shoot. The bullet embeds into the soft of the man's flank and he staggers onto a knee.

He recovers quickly. Too quickly.

His gun is at the ready when he winds back to shoot in retaliation. Malik has dodged many a bullet in his lifetime. When he crashes sideways into the wall sheer luck keeps him from spraining his shoulder or fracturing his ribs against the railing.

Two shots booms past and into the blind.

Malik fetches his opponent with a kick on lifted shin before the man can point the muzzle back at him. He trips over but keeps a balanced knee and gun in hand, but Malik is through with games. He puts his arms under the man's as if to pull him up, locks his hands and fingers behind his head. The man's finger slips from the trigger and sends the gun flying and across the floor. A snarl slips past Malik's throat while he bends the man's neck forward, presses locked hands down his nape with a brutish force until the man's rasping throat is stooped to the point of asphyxiation. The bunch of these men rely too heavy on weapons to know a proper combat.

The man is limp and dead in his lock when a distant sound sends Malik into a heart-pounding, rage-inducing, shattering fear.

At the end of the hall where he had left Kadar there is a pained groan.

Malik lets the corpse drop and scrambles back to his brother with a shout of his name on his lips, paralyzed by panic.

A scrunch of pain contorts Kadar's face, he stands clutching at his wounds, the leak of blood crawls down his forearm in slow trickles and drips across the floor off the tip of his elbow.

Until now Malik has not been afraid. A germ of doubt may have entered his thoughts now and again, but he had stood undaunted, with the ultimate path clear ahead of him even when his actions were marked by cautious indecisiveness. Until now, fear has not crossed his thoughts, nor his heart.

The shock robs him off all his strength and he can hardly drag his body along as he pulls Kadar to the side and lays him down into a half-upright position to rest against a wall.

He chastens this impulse of fright. It's a luxury he can't afford himself.

He pulls Kadar's unyielding hand away and does a rush job of ridding him of the blood-soaked shirt, makes him sputter a rush of words that descend into fast huffs. Air whistles between his clenched teeth as he breathes heavily through the pain, sits still and lets the pain ride.

Malik's eyes fall upon the wounds where the two bullets trenched their way through soft tissue and feels the pulse of a debilitating fear dwindle while he assesses the damage of the shots. Karma doesn't often pay off, but upon rare occasions she is generous in her kindness. The injury looks worse than it actually is. A discharge of blood is drained from it, muddying the right plane of his torso, two bullet holes close to each other, below Kadar's shoulder and the clavicular notch.

It's not the artery.

It's probably his subclavian vein that's ruptured or nicked. The blood is not gushing, it’s streaming and oozing out, and it's dark, lacking oxygen as it is. Thank Allah almighty, it’s a vein. He can stop this bleeding with a few minutes of pressure.

"It’s alright, it’s just a scratch," Malik is unsure who he is trying to assure while he cradles Kadar's face, "everything’s gonna be alright. Don’t worry." Kadar's eyes are glazed over with pain when he opens them, "Brother? _Akhi_?" Malik calls and stirs him with a gentle shake, gets a nod in return.

He takes off his blanket-bag and carves out a quick piece with the stiletto―for the immediate staunch of blood-flow―before taking to cutting out longer ropes for binding. He had intended the blankets for barb-wire, but fuck it. He’ll dig a hole underneath the fence with bare hands if it comes to that. With a double-fold piece he compresses the wounds and presses his lips together in a thin line when Kadar spits forth a succession of vile oaths.

Malik wishes it had been him shot instead.

He laments but works all the same, leans Kadar into himself to look for exit wounds on his back. Kadar turns a touch tense at this.

"Careful―blood'll get… on your shirt," he grunts to Malik weakly.

"A little late for that," Malik snorts, lays Kadar's frame heavily across his own and doesn't mind the warm soaking of blood on his clothes. The parallel patch of Kadar's back is bloody and he clears it off with a blanket piece haphazardly, in gentle wipes. There is one crescent-shaped exit wound on Kadar's back. The second bullet went through muscle and perhaps bone but remained inside his body.

Malik doesn't even dream of removing it. He doesn't have proper training in bullet removal, and he is far from the semblance of a sterile field and proper tools. The least worry is getting the bullet out. Thousands live daily with shrapnel embedded inside their bodies.

Malik tries to plug the back wound with a clean gauze to help the blood clot, but Kadar flinches away from him and into his chest, groans in sharp pain. Malik suspects a broken bone underneath. He slips his hand back, between their chests, to feel along his collarbone, but doesn't find it fractured. He worries more about a potential internal blood-loss anyway. Bullet design varies. These bullets were not hollow points, designed for greater damage, they are jacketed bullets, but Malik fears the bullet may have ricocheted inside his body and splintered a bone of his shoulder girdle. He will have to improvise a shoulder sling.

"Kadar, this is going to… well I don't have to tell you, I guess."

He doesn't want to push too hard and move the bone out of place, but he has to compress good against the seeping sanguine because he can't remove bandages once they stop the external hemorrhage and become soaked. Malik does his best to ignore Kadar's sharp intake of breath and the way his muscles quiver in pain.

He lifts him off his shoulder and straightens him up a few inches, wraps a tight band of bandage around his chest and back and shoulder, and puts the arm of his injured side in a quick sling.

He collects leftover blankets into his bag and leaves useless scraps behind, begins to stroke across Kadar's arms where the injury doesn't spread, across his ribs where it's not sticky with blood, and neck, vigilant for signs of shivering and hypothermia.

"Can you move?"

"Not right now." Kadar grunts, accepts the shirt Malik dresses him in, the unspoiled one beneath his cardigan. 

"Toughen up, princess. I have to get you out."   

"Asshole..." Kadar tries to smile through a throe of pain, but falls into worry in the fraction of a second, "I love you, _akhi_." He adds in a whisper, seeks out Malik's eyes after Malik finishes pulling his cardigan back on.

Panic shoots through Malik at these words. He begins a rapid overall assessment of his brother, sizes up for signs of internal bleeding. He kneels in and feels along his jugular and neck but his pulse is not that weak. He doesn’t show any signs of decreased alertness.

"You’ll tell me that again when we’re out, okay?" He presses their foreheads, wants to impart a load of confidence onto him, however impossible the task. Kadar knows they are far from getting out yet, they have yet to clamber down the forest and into first borders of civilization, and the first medical facility is far off.

"Can you stand?" Malik asks again, throws a look around for the first time since he has started wrapping Kadar up. Aside from the corpse at the far end of the hall, there is no one else.

"I think so." Kadar is trying to lift himself and feels his stomach flutter while he is helped to his feet.

Vertigo seizes him for a moment, only briefly, and after a wobbly first step, he stands fine. Malik keeps his arm around his waist, situates himself on his uninjured side to help him along until Kadar gets the hang of it and familiarizes with the nature of pain.

Urgency begins to scull Malik's actions.

Finding the nearest exit is now more crucial than ever.

He takes a breath but tries not to imbue it with worry to avoid infecting Kadar with an overly bad mood. He must keep Kadar's spirits up and that's the last thing he needs right now. He scans ahead where they venture on and there are two turns, left and right. Malik has a strong feeling about the right path and opts for that one. It may be a wild instinct or a foolish sense of premonition, or it may be nothing, but he travels down that path nonetheless, now with Kadar trailing at his side, occasionally checking their back to spare Kadar this task.

Malik curses.

Before they can even exit this new hall they are disturbed by heavy footsteps trudging up the one that connects to theirs.

Malik damns his rotten luck.

He maneuvers Kadar against the wall where he will be safest and darts down the end of the hall to lie in ambush and wait for his next victim.

Time seems to slow and Malik waits, until the unmerciful tramp of footsteps gets near enough.

Then he pounces.

He slams into the man and sends him flying into the opposite wall where he lands with an unpleasant crunch. The man attempts to lift his frame off wall, but he is crashed back against it with a quelling thud, trapped under the tenacious grip of Malik’s arms.

Altaïr sees white through the searing agony as pain explodes across his side and spine and face. He slumps into the wall, dazed, braced for an impact of a fist...

... that fortunately never comes.

Altaïr's vision clears to find a pair of dark-brow eyes parallel to his own.

Malik stares back into his husband's bedazzled eyes with astonishment and confusion etched onto his face, before a strange laughter of disbelief erupts from his throat and across his visage.

"Malik?" Altaïr whispers in mirrored disbelief, tears his arms from his husband's shackling grip to trap Malik's face within his hold.

"No, it's the pizza guy." Malik's voice, though heavily-laden with sarcasm, is comforting to hear, a balm for the soul.

Malik stares at the man holding him.

Altaïr looks like shit.

Exhausted, tired, worn-out, run-down _shit_.

His eyes are bloodshot, soot and splattered-painted-dried-foreign blood across his face, beads of cold sweat formed under his hairline.

"You look like shit."

 _I feel worse_ remains lodged inside Altaïr's throat as he says, "I’m fine."

"You're a lot of things, Altaïr, but fine is definitely not one of them," and Malik puts Kadar's blood to his husband's bloody face as he frames it and lets a thumb glide across his cheekbone, but never finishes this journey because Altaïr mashes their lips together. He kisses desperately, increasing the pressure between them until it starts to hurt. Malik parts his mouth, their teeth clack roughly as Altaïr dives into the kiss with a violent hunger, urgently. Malik kisses powerfully but with more semblance, his hands abandon Altaïr's face to drop to his shoulders to disentangle himself after Altaïr begins to rake fingers through his unruly hair almost frantically and pulls him further into the kiss. Altaïr's actions are sodden with ache Malik had never felt on him before. It scares Malik into splitting them up entirely.

When at last he separates himself, Altaïr still seems to want to hold onto him, as if fearful that Malik might run away from his hold.

"There's no time for this, _fool_ ," Malik chastises, keeps Altaïr at an arm's length, "Kadar has been shot."

This seems to sober Altaïr up and he switches his focus to wider area and to the younger man patiently standing at Malik's back and holding his suspended arm tenderly.

"How you holding up, twerp?"

"Been better." Kadar offers laconically, but elated with a profound relief and overcome by the sweet smell of impeding freedom.

Altaïr nods awkwardly and lets go of Malik, not entirely satisfied to have been coerced into doing so.

"We have a medical team waiting outside, you'll be alright." Altaïr assures him and fumbles around with what looks like an earpiece and a miniature mic. "Regroup at the main chamber, I found them." He speaks into it and tears the earpiece off. He looks longingly at his husband while Malik takes Kadar piggyback and instructs in how to hold himself without upsetting his injuries. He didn't even get a chance at properly welcoming Kadar.

Altaïr guides them out.

There isn't much track to cover, not more than three turns. They have been so close to an entirely different entrance to the main chamber.

Malik holds onto Kadar's thighs and begins to scowl darkly with each new step.

Further in, there is a smell. Subtle at first, strong enough for his sensitive nose. But Kadar picks it up shortly thereafter and Malik senses it on his back, in the way his lungs begin to work. The strength of it grows, it's hard to miss down here in the closed space, and makes Malik's stomach turn slightly.

He is familiar with this smell, knows its nuance and meaning, it's the one on his hands and Altaïr's face and Kadar's wounds, only worse. Malik knows what awaits them when they step through heavy doors and into what had been the main chamber, but they enter to find a true Thyestean banquet.

Kadar lasts entire eight seconds before he drops from Malik's back with a choked-off sound and vomits up his everything.

Malik knows the sight will forever be ingrained into Kadar's memory. You have to be made of steel not to throw up at this grotesque entanglement of bodies bathing in a swelling pool of crimson. Malik listens to Kadar's retching and watches this horrific display where his husband filled the empty void he had felt with warm blood, and Sibrand kneeling among it all, looking white-and-dull.

 _The famiglia_ is regrouping quickly, leaving little reason to dwell further inside this sad battlefront riddled with death.

"Altaïr, do I leave the camera behind?" Desmond asks for orders.

"Yes, leave the mess," Altaïr answers firmly, imparts what he sees as a memorable lesson to keep in store for future reference, "Let everyone know that Altaïr Al-Sayf Ibn-La’Ahad is same as he’s always been. Only a little worse." He drops his gaze to where Sibrand is listening with intent vigilance, "Let them look upon this and think before they cross the Auditores. Let them think _twice_ before they cross the Al-Sayfs."

Malik listens to this haughty speech and feels Altaïr's longing touch on the back of his hand, but he rips it from his husband's reach.

"You did this?"

Altaïr looks at what Malik is looking―not the only leftover of a former clan but the massacre of a lunatic―and Altaïr finally beholds it too, like a man who's just seen this for the first time, like he's slowly coming to the realization of what he has left in the wake of his fury. It's nothing short of terrifying.

"I did." He answers in like whisper and swallows. Behind them, Aveline and Connor are fussing over Kadar.

"You're nuts. You're fucking nuts."

Malik is livid.

Altaïr benevolently welcomes any reaction he can elicit from him, but he doesn't quite know how to deal with his husband's anger.

"This is why I didn't want to get involved with you and this bullshit. I want nothing to do with this. _Fuck_." Malik curses on, enticed into an incensed fury. 

Altaïr stands resembling a beaten pup, disoriented and craving the gentle touch of a caring hand. He doesn't want to budge from Malik's side, but the man abandons him to go ahead and approach Sibrand. 

"Jubair is alive, Sibrand. Find him in our ex-cell." The man does little to look up and Malik sinks into a crouch and puts a hand to his shoulder to shake him into alertness, "And find yourself a man, for heaven's sake." He drops the tone where words are intended for the blond alone.

Sibrand surveys his face for a moment before he nods in vague understanding.

Altaïr follows this quiet exchange with a critical-and-jealous eye, but morphs into a hopeful look when Malik leaves the blond and turns to collect his brother. Malik's gaze lands fleetingly upon his face and darkens into a glare. Altaïr drops his eyes and holds silence.

"Let's get you out, kid." Ezio instructs and arranges for Connor to carry Kadar out.

"I'd rather that Aveline carry me." Kadar quirks up into a weak smile while he leans on her for support.

"The kid's still got spirit in him, alright," she coos and pets across his cheek and jaw and smiles at him assuredly as she passes him into Connor's hands. Connor heaves him onto his back and a grunt of pain rips from Kadar.

"Are you okay?" Connor turns head to inquire, pulls him up by the back of thighs to let him lie more comfortably across his frame.

"Just peachy." Kadar gives a puff of chuckle and winds his available arm round Connor’s neck.

Altaïr tries to reach out for Malik's hand again as they leave the building and spill forth into the night where the vehicles are waiting ready for them, but Malik denies him the touch. Malik won't spare him a look and a different kind of panic begins to crawl up Altaïr's spine.

The gate opens easily with the locking code revealed by Sibrand and they begin to board the vehicles. Kadar refuses to enter the van on a stretcher and slips off Connor's back into it to let the two paramedics offer professional aid. Malik is trying to search out a place for himself, but there's no comfortable fit for a sixth person and Aveline pushes him away from rear of the van.

"Connor and I will keep an eye on him, worry not." She is insistent in her pushing and trying to close the wings.

"But I need to be with my brother now―"

"You need to be with your husband, Malik." She scowls at him, not angry but persistent in her unsubtle endeavor to reunite them. She flings the doors closed in the face of Malik's unhinged mouth and he doesn't venture a second intrusion. He knows Kadar is in good care. At this point he can't even impose himself into the front of the van because Desmond is the driver and Leonardo has annexed the remaining seat. The rasp of Aveline's words ushers him slowly towards the car.

The van drives off down the curvy road of the hill and the car waits for his advent.

Malik sighs into the chilly night, lets his eyelids fall and takes a figurative step back, tries to see himself from a distance.

He has been unfair to Altaïr.

The man has only ever wanted to save him. The endeavors he must have endured to reach this point. And all for a fuming dismissal as a thanks from his spouse. Malik has been a hypocrite. Murder is murder, it matters little if it's done one kill after another, as Malik had done it, or in a single heap of bodies, as Altaïr had left them. These people have risked their lives tonight to save them, and for this reason alone Malik owes them an apology and gratitude. To Altaïr he should have offered words of comfort where he lashed with careless temper.

He shakes himself out of stupor and verges towards the car.

Ezio is sitting behind the wheel, patient in his taciturn waiting, and Altaïr on the backseat, hands on thighs, unmoving and quiet.

Malik technically could take up the passenger seat.

He eases into the back seat instead, beside Altaïr. Ezio gives him a first (and what is to be the last during this journey) look from the rear-view mirror and starts the engine. Words are not exchanged at the onset of this ride towards the villa, but Ezio tunes out anyway to give them privacy.

Altaïr has not budged from where he reclines with his head lolled back onto the headrest, eyes closed and face slack, expressionless.

But then he feels Malik's hand holding his right, the sensation collapses in around his visionless state and wrenches him from the jaws of half-consciousness. His head snaps up and his lips slip into the hold of Malik's awaiting ones. The cradle of Malik's fingers keeping his face still drags him off into a moan, Malik's warm lips lure him deeper into the kiss. A long curve of the road settles Malik further into Altaïr's body and warmth, and this sets off a trigger in Altaïr, an impulse which makes him shackle Malik within the bounds of his arms, coerces him into a tighter grip. This serves only to further Malik's desire for his husband and soon there is little beside hitched breaths and soft smacking of kissing lips.

In this baffling-and-inexplicable surge of emotion Malik wouldn't mind making love to his husband right here and now, in Ezio's very presence.

Ezio, having sensed that things were starting to hit the roof at a rapidly growing speed, tosses a fat pack of wet wipes in their general direction―a thing long overdue―and sets them to an awkward split-up.

"Save that for later." Ezio teases, a luscious smirk pulls at his lips and pinches his tired eyes.

Malik doesn't dignify that with a response, but he does pick up the package. He pulls a couple of wipes out, wraps them into a stuffed bundle and begins to clean Altaïr's face. The tracks of long-dried blood flake off under Malik's meticulous grooming, begin to reveal the entirety of Altaïr's drained expression.

Another curve sends Malik right into Altaïr's arms and he begins to dip in and dot his wiping with sporadic kisses.

Altaïr releases his waist to mirror Malik's first cradle, a burden is carved deep into his features as he searches out Malik's eyes in the dim light.

"I'm here," Malik whispers in a hush, lays his sticky-wet palms across the back of hands framing his face, "It's alright."

"No divorce?" Altaïr wants to know, tightening his hold in fear of an answer.

"Gods, no," Malik breathes out in a humorless chuckle, coils his fingers into Altaïr's hands to relocate them to his waist once more, "I've been speaking in anger, forgive me."

Altaïr swallows and dips his head into a nod, imbibes himself with the apology until he's drunk with relief. No divorce. No divorce.

"Maybe..." Altaïr stops as resolve vanishes in the face of what he intends to say, "Maybe you would be safer away from me, and Kadar―"

Malik silences him with a press of lips and retreats when he deems Altaïr has been robbed of words.

"I know what I've gotten myself into when I married you, fool." Malik shushes him, wants no more of this subject, "Don't make me kick you out on the couch tonight."

Altaïr gives a watery smile and ceases talk of marital issues, with no intentions on forfeiting his husband's presence in their bed, not tonight when he needs him most.

"You really should make less enemies." Malik says even as he knows that the burden of tonight's deaths they share together.

Malik shelters his husband's hand within his own, keeps Altaïr's head deeply-pressed into his neck, and heals his deepest wounds.

The night reigns on and they advance into the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession time: This sequel was partly sparked and inspired by my mother who broke into a military base during the Yugoslav wars to save my father who was held captive. I say 'partly' because her courage deserves more than this. I commend her bravery to this day.
> 
> Thank you all for sticking until the end and for the kudos and thoughts and for reading, it’s been a pleasure <3


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